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A   BOOK  OF 
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AMOS  JUDD.      By  J.  A.   Mitchell 
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THE    SUICIDE    CLUB 

By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

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By  E.  W.  Hornung 

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By  Harriet  Piescott  Spofford 

MADAME    DELPHINE 
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A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 
By  Cornelia  Atwood  Pratt 

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A   BOOK   OF  MARTYRS 


When  first  they  mixed  the  Clay  of  Man  and  clothed 
His  Spirit  in  the  Robe  of  Perfect  Beauty, 
For  Forty  Mornings  did  an  evil  Cloud 
Rain  Sorrows  over  him  from  Head  to  Foot; 
And  when  the  Forty  Mornings  passed  to  Night, 
There    came    one    Morning-Shower  —  one    Morning- 
Shower 

Of  Joy — to  Forty  of  the  Rain  of  Sorrow ! 
And  though  the  better  Fortune  came  at  last 
To  seal  the  Work,  yet  every  Wise  Man  knows 
Such  Consummation  never  can  be  here  ! 

From  the  Persian  of  Jami. 


A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 


BY 

^ 


CORNELIA   ATWOOD   PRATT 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK,  1896 


Copyright,  1896,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


TROW  DIRECTORY 
1  «NO  BOOKBINOINOCOMPAnr 
MEW  YORK 


NOTE 

OF  the  stories  in  this  volume,  "  Witherle's 
Freedom"  and  "Serene's  Religious  Expe 
rience  ' '  were  first  published  in  The  Cen 
tury  Magazine;  "A  Consuming  Fire," 
"  Hardesty's  Cowardice  "  and  "  The  Honor 
of  a  Gentleman"  in  Harper's  Weekly; 
"At  the  End  of  the  World"  in  The  In 
dependent.  Thanks  are  due  the  publishers 
of  these  periodicals  for  permission  to  reprint 
the  stories  here. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Witherle's  Freedom,  i 
Serene's  Religions  Experience;  an  In 
land  Story, 79 

An  Instance  of  Chivalry,  .  .  -45 
A  Consuming  Fire,  .  .  .  .  77 
An  Unearned  Reward,  .  .  .89 
Hardesty's  Cowardice,  .  .  ,  ni 
"  The  Honor  of  a  Gentleman,"  .  131 

Rivals, 75^ 

At  the  End  of  the  World,         .        .165 


WITHERLE'S   FREEDOM 


WITHERLE'S   FREEDOM 

His  little  world  was  blankly  astonished 
when  Witherle  dropped  out  of  it.  His  dis 
appearance  was  as  his  life  had  been,  neat, 
methodical,  well-arranged ;  but  why  did  he 
go  at  all  ? 

He  had  lived  through  thirty-seven  years 
of  a  discreetly  conducted  existence  with  ap 
parent  satisfaction ;  he  had  been  in  the  min 
istry  for  fifteen  years  ;  he  had  been  married 
nearly  as  long ;  he  was  in  no  sort  of  diffi 
culty,  theological,  financial,  or  marital ;  he 
possessed  the  favor  of  his  superiors  in  the 
church,  the  confidence  of  his  wife,  and  he 
had  recently  come  into  a  small  fortune  be 
queathed  him  by  a  great-aunt.  Every  one 
regarded  him  as  very  "comfortably  fixed" 
— for  a  minister. 

Of  all  the  above-enumerated  blessings  he 
had  divested  himself  methodically,  as  a  man 
folds  up  and  lays  aside  worn  garments.  He 
resigned  his  charge,  he  transferred  his  prop- 


4  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

erty  to  his  wife,  and  wrote  her  a  farewell 
note  in  which  he  said,  in  a  light-hearted  way 
which  she  mistook  for  incoherence,  that  she 
would  never  see  him  again.  These  things 
done,  he  dropped  out  of  the  sight  of  men  as 
completely  as  a  stone  fallen  into  a  pond. 

His  friends  speculated  and  investigated, 
curiously,  eagerly,  fearfully,  but  to  no  pur 
pose.  What  was  the  motive?  Where  had 
he  gone  ?  Had  he  committed  suicide  ?  Was 
he  insane  ?  The  elders  of  the  church  em 
ployed  a  detective,  and  the  friends  of  his 
wife  took  up  the  search,  but  Witherle  was 
not  found.  He  had  left  as  little  trace  where 
by  he  could  be  followed  as  a  meteor  leaves 
when  it  rushes  across  the  sky. 

Presently,  of  course,  interest  in  the  event 
subsided  ;  the  church  got  a  new  minister ; 
Witherle's  wife  went  back  to  her  own  peo 
ple;  the  world  appeared  to  forget.  But 
there  was  a  man  of  Witherle's  congregation 
named  Lowndes  who  still  meditated  the  un 
solved  problem  at  odd  moments.  He  was  a 
practical  man  of  affairs,  with  the  psycho 
logical  instinct,  and  he  found  the  question 
of  why  people  do  the  things  that  they  do 
perennially  interesting.  Humanity  from  any 
point  of  view  is  a  touching  spectacle ;  from 


WITHERLE'S  FREEDOM  5 

a  business  standpoint  it  is  infinitely  droll. 
Personally  Lowndes  was  one  of  the  whole 
some  natures  for  whom  there  are  more  cer 
tainties  than  uncertainties  in  life,  and  he 
felt  for  Wither le  the  protecting  friendliness 
that  a  strong  man  sometimes  has  for  one  less 
strong.  He  advised  him  as  to  his  invest 
ments  on  week-days,  and  listened  patiently 
Sunday  after  Sunday,  as  the  lesser  man  ex 
pounded  the  mysteries  of  creation  and  the 
ways  of  the  Creator,  sustained  by  the  reflec 
tion  that  Witherle  was  better  than  his  ser 
mons.  He  did  not  consider  him  an  inter 
esting  man,  but  he  believed  him  to  be  a 
good  one.  When  Witherle  was  no  longer 
at  hand,  Lowndes  counselled  and  planned 
for  his  wife,  and  otherwise  made  himself 
as  useful  as  the  circumstances  would  permit. 
He  felt  sorry  for  Witherle's  wife,  a  ner 
vous  woman  to  whom  had  come  as  sharp 
an  upheaval  of  life  as  death  itself  could 
have  brought  about,  without  the  comfort 
of  the  reflection  that  the  Lord  had  taken 
away. 

Fate,  who  sometimes  delivers  the  ball  to 
those  who  are  ready  to  play,  decreed  that, 
in  May,  about  a  year  after  Witherle's  disap 
pearance,  Lowndes  should  be  summoned 


6  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

from  the  Pennsylvania  village  where  he  lived 
to  one  of  the  cities  of  an  adjoining  State. 
His  business  took  him  along  the  dingy  river 
front  of  the  town.  Crossing  a  bridge  one 
evening  toward  sunset,  he  stopped  idly  to 
note  the  shifting  iridescent  tints  that  con 
verted  the  river  for  the  hour  into  a  heavenly 
water-way  between  the  two  purgatorial  banks 
lined  with  warehouses  and  elevators  black 
with  the  inexpressibly  mussy  and  depress 
ing  blackness  of  the  soot  of  soft  coal.  His 
glance  fell  upon  a  coal -barge  being  loaded 
at  the  nearest  wharf.  He  leaned  over  the 
rail,  wondering  why  the  lines  of  the  figure 
of  one  of  the  workmen  looked  familiar  to 
him.  The  man  seemed  to  be  shovelling  coal 
with  a  peculiar  zest.  As  this  is  a  species  of 
toil  not  usually  performed  for  the  love  of 
it,  his  manner  naturally  attracted  attention. 
While  Lowndes  still  stood  there  pondering 
the  problematical  familiarity  of  his  back,  the 
man  turned.  Lowndes  clutched  the  rail. 
"  By  Jove  !  "  he  said,  excitedly,  for  he  saw 
that  the  features  were  the  features  of  With- 
erle.  Their  expression  was  exultant  and 
illuminated  beyond  anything  ever  vouch 
safed  to  that  plodding  gospeller.  Moving 
along  the  bridge  to  a  point  just  above  the 


WITHERLE'S  FREEDOM  7 

barge,  he  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at 
it.     It  was  nearly  six  o'clock. 

The  next  fifteen  minutes  were  exciting 
ones  for  Lowndes.  His  mind  was  in  a  tu 
mult.  It  is  no  light  matter  to  make  one's 
self  the  arbiter  of  another  man's  destiny ; 
and  he  knew  enough  of  Witherle  to  feel  sure 
that  the  man's  future  was  in  his  hands.  He 
looked  down  at  him  dubiously,  his  strong 
hands  still  clutching  the  rail  tensely.  For  a 
minute  he  felt  that  he  must  move  on  without 
making  his  presence  known,  but  even  as  he 
resolved,  the  clocks  and  whistles  clamorously 
announced  the  hour. 

When  the  men  quitted  their  work,  the 
man  whom  Lowndes's  eyes  were  following 
came  up  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  bridge. 
As  he  passed,  Lowndes  laid  a  hand  lightly 
on  his  shoulder. 

"  How  are  you,  Witherle?  "  he  said. 

The  man  stared  at  him  blankly  a  second, 
recoiled,  and  his  face  turned  livid  as  he 
shook  off  the  friendly  hand.  The  other 
men  had  passed  on,  and  they  were  alone  on 
the  bridge. 

"I'm  a  free  man,"  said  Witherle,  loud 
ly,  throwing  back  his  shoulders.  "  Be 
fore  God,  I'm  a  free  man  for  the  first 


8  A   BOOK   OF  MARTYRS 

time  in  my  life.-  What  do  you  want  with 
me?" 

"  Don't  rave,"  said  Lowndes,  sharply.  "  I 
sha'n't  hurt  you.  You  couldn't  expect  me 
to  pass  you  without  speaking,  could  you?  " 

"Then  you  weren't  looking  for  me?" 
asked  Witherle,  abjectly. 

"  I  have  business  on  hand."  Lowndes 
spoke  impatiently,  for  he  did  not  enjoy  see 
ing  his  old  friend  cower.  "I  am  here  for 
the  Diamond  Oil  Co.  I  was  crossing  the 
bridge  just  now,  when  I  saw  a  man  down 
there  shovelling  coal  as  if  he  liked  it ;  and  I 
delayed  to  look,  and  saw  it  was  you.  So  I 
waited  for  you.  That  is  all  there  is  of  it. 
You  needn't  stop  if  you  don't  wish." 

Witherle  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  My 
nerves  aren't  what  they  were,"  he  said, 
apologetically.  "  It  played  the  mischief 
with  them  to — "  He  left  the  sentence  hang 
ing  in  the  air. 

"  If  you  weren't  going  to  like  the  results, 
you  needn't  have  gone,"  observed  Lowndes, 
in  an  impartial  tone.  "  Nobody  has  been 
exactly  able  to  see  the  reasons  for  your  de 
parture.  You  left  the  folks  at  home  a  good 
deal  stirred  up." 

"  What  do  they  say  about  me  there?" 


WITHERLE'S  FREEDOM  9 

Lowndes  hesitated.  "  Most  of  them  say 
you  were  crazy.  Your  wife  has  gone  back 
to  her  people." 

"Ah!" 

Lowndes  looked  at  the  man  with  a  sudden 
impulse  of  pity.  He  was  leaning  against  the 
rail,  breathing  heavily.  His  face  was  white 
beneath  the  soot,  but  in  his  eyes  still  flamed 
that  incomprehensible  ecstasy.  He  was  ine 
briate  with  the  subtle  stimulus  of  some  trans 
cendent  thought.  But  what  thought  ?  And 
what  had  brought  him  here  ?  This  creature, 
with  his  sensitive  mouth,  his  idealist's  eyes, 
his  scholar's  hands,  black  and  hardened  now 
but  still  clearly  recognizable,  was  at  least 
more  out  of  place  among  the  coal-heavers 
than  he  had  been  in  the  pulpit.  Lowndes 
felt  mightily  upon  him  the  desire  to  shepherd 
this  man  back  to  some  more  sheltered  fold. 
The  highways  of  existence  were  not  for  his 
feet ;  not  for  his  lips  the  "  Song  of  the  Open 
Road."  He  did  not  resist  the  desire  to  say, 
meditatively  : 

"  You  have  no  children " 

' '  God  in  His  mercy  be  praised  for  that 
one  blessing  !  "  Witherle  muttered.  But 
Lowndes  went  on  as  if  he  did  not  hear  : 

"  But  you  might  think  of  your  wife." 


10  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"  I  have  thought  of  her  —  too  much.  I 
thought  about  everything  too  much.  I  am 
tired  of  thinking,"  said  Witherle.  "  I  won 
der  if  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

Witherle  looked  about  him  restlessly. 
"  Come  where  we  can  talk — down  there  on 
that  pile  of  boards.  I  think  I'd  like  to  talk. 
It  is  very  simple  when  once  you  understand 
it." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  opposite  end  of 
the  bridge,  and  down  an  embankment  to  a 
lumber -pile  at  the  water's  edge.  Up  the 
river  the  May  sun  had  gone  down  in  splen 
dor,  leaving  the  water  crimson  -  stained. 
Witherle  sat  down  where  he  could  look  along 
the  river-reaches. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Witherle.  Don't 
talk  to  me  unless  you  are  sure  you  want  to." 

"  That's  all  right.  There's  nothing  much 
to  tell.  I  don't  seem  to  mind  your  under 
standing." 

Witherle  was  silent  a  minute. 

"It  is  very  simple,"  he  said  again. 
"  This  is  the  way  I  think  about  it.  Either 
you  do  the  things  you  want  to  do  in  this 
world  or  else  you  don't.  I  had  never  done 
what  I  wanted  until  I  left  home.  I  didn't 


WITHERLE'S  FREEDOM  II 

mean  to  hurt  anybody  by  coming  away  in 
that  style,  and  I  don't  think  that  I  did.  I'd 
rather  not  be  selfish,  but  life  got  so  dull.  I 
couldn't  stand  it.  I  had  to  have  a  change. 
I  had  to  come.  The  things  you  have  to  do 
you  do.  There  was  a  Frenchman  once  who 
committed  suicide  and  left  a  note  that  said  : 
'Tired  of  this  eternal  buttoning  and  un 
buttoning.'  I  know  how  he  felt.  I  don't 
know  how  other  men  manage  to  live.  Per 
haps  their  work  means  more  to  them  than 
mine  had  come  to  mean  to  me.  It  was  just 
dull,  that  was  all,  and  I  had  to  come." 

Lowndes  stared.  Truly  it  was  delight 
fully  simple.  "  Why,  man,  you  can't  chuck 
your  responsibilities  overboard  like  that. 
Your  wife " 

"When  I  was  twenty-one,"  interrupted 
Witherle,  "I  was  in  love.  The  girl  mar 
ried  somebody  else.  Before  I  met  my  wife 
she  had  cared  for  a  man  who  married  an 
other  woman.  You  see  how  it  was.  We 
were  going  to  save  the  pieces  together.  As 
a  business  arrangement  that  sort  of  thing  is 
all  right.  I  haven't  a  word  to  say  against 
it.  She  is  a  good  woman,  and  we  got  on  as 
well  as  most  people,  only  life  was  not  ecsta 
sy  to  either  of  us. /y  Can't  you  see  us  tied  to- 


12  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

gether,  snaking  our  way  along  through  exist 
ence  as  if  it  were  some  gray  desert,  and  we 
crawling  on  and  on  over  the  sand,  always 
with  our  faces  bent  to  it,  and  nothing  show 
ing  itself  in  our  way  but  the  white  bones  of 
the  men  and  women  who  had  travelled  along 
there  before  us  —  grinning  skulls  mostly  ? 
Can't  you  see  it?  "// 

Looking  up,  he  caught  an  expression  in 
Lowndes's  eyes  the  meaning  of  which  he 
suspected.  "  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid,"  he 
added,  hastily,  "that  this  is  insanity.  It's 
only  imagination.  That's  the  way  I  felt. 
And  my  work  was  only  another  long  desert 
to  be  toiled  through — with  the  Sphinx  at 
the  end.  I  wasn't  a  successful  preacher,  and 
you  know  it.  I  hadn't  any  grip  on  men. 
I  hadn't  any  grip  on  myself — or  God.  I 
couldn't  see  any  use  or  any  meaning  or 
any  joy  in  it.  The  whole  thing  choked  me. 
I  wanted  a  simpler,  more  elemental  life.  I 
wanted  to  go  up  and  down  the  earth  and 
try  new  forms  of  living,  new  ways  of  doing 
things,  new  people.  Life — that  was  what  I 
wanted ;  to  feel  the  pulse  of  the  world  throb 
under  my  touch,  to  be  in  the  stir,  to  be  do 
ing  something.  I  was  always  haunted  by 
the  conviction  that  life  was  tremendous  if 


WITHERLE'S  FREEDOM  13 

only  you  once  got  at  it.  I  couldn't  get  at 
it  where  I  was.  I  was  rotting  away.  So 
when  that  money  was  left  me  it  came  like 
a  godsend.  I  knew  my  wife  could  live 
on  that,  and  I  didn't  think'  she'd  miss  me 
much,  so  I  just  came  off." 

"And  you  like  it?  " 

The  man's  eyes  flamed.  "  Like  it  ?  It's 
great !  It's  the  only  thing  there  is.  I've 
been  from  Maine  to  California  this  year.  I 
wintered  in  a  Michigan  lumber-camp — that 
was  hell.  I  was  a  boat-hand  on  the  Co 
lumbia  last  summer — that  was  heaven.  I 
worked  in  a  coal-mine  two  months — a  scab 
workman,  you  understand.  And  now  I'm 
at  this.  I  tell  you,  it  is  fine  to  get  rid  of 
cudgelling  your  brains  for  ideas  that  aren't 
there,  and  of  pretending  to  teach  people 
something  you  don't  know,  and  take  to 
working  with  your  hands  nine  hours  a  day 
and  sleeping  like  a  log  all  night.  I  hadn't 
slept  for  months,  you  know.  These  people 
tell  me  about  themselves.  I'm  seeing  what 
life  is  like.  I'm  getting  down  to  the  founda 
tions.  I've  learned  more  about  humanity 
in  the  last  six  months  than  I  ever  knew  in 
all  my  life.  I  believe  I've  learned  more 
about  religion.  I'm  getting  hold  of  things. 


14  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

It's  like  getting  out  on  the  open  sea  after 
that  desert  I  was  talking  about — don't  you 
see?  And  it  all  tastes  so  good  to  me!" 
He  dropped  his  head  into  his  hands,  ex 
hausted  by  the  flood  of  words  he  had  poured 
rapidly  out. 

Lowndes  hesitated  long  before  he  spoke. 
He  was  reflecting  that  Witherle's  exaltation 
was  pathological — he  was  drunk  with  the  air 
of  the  open  road. 

"  Poor  little  devil !  "  he  thought.  "  One 
might  let  alone  a  man  who  finds  ecstasy 
in  being  a  coal  -  heaver  ;  but  it  won't 
do." 

"  Life  is  big,"  he  admitted,  slowly;  "  it's 
tremendous,  if  you  like ;  it's  all  you  say — 
but  it  isn't  for  you.  Don't  you  see  it  is  too 
late?  We're  all  of  us  under  bonds  to  keep 
the  world's  peace  and  finish  the  contracts 
we  undertake.  You're  out  of  bounds  now. 
You  have  got  to  come  back. ' ' 

Witherle  stared  at  him  blankly.  "You 
say  that?  After  what  I've  told  you?  Why, 
there's  nothing  to  go  back  for.  And  here — 
there  is  everything  !  What  harm  am  I  do 
ing,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  Who  is  hurt  ?  What 
claims  has  that  life  on  me  ?  Confound  you  !  ' ' 
his  wrath  rising  fiercely,  "  how  dare  you 


WITHERLE'S  FREEDOM  15 

talk  like  that  to  me?  Why  isn't  life  for  me 
as  well  as  for  you  ?  ' ' 

This  Witherle  was  a  man  he  did  not  know. 
Lowndes  felt  a  little  heart-sick,  but  only  the 
more  convinced  that  he  must  make  his  point. 

"  If  you  didn't  feel  that  you  were  out  of 
bounds,  why  were  you  afraid  of  me  when  I 
came  along?" 

The  thrust  told.  Witherle  was  silent. 
Lowndes  went  on  :  "  Bread  isn't  as  interest 
ing  as  champagne,  I  know,  but  there  is  more 
in  it,  in  the  long  run.  However,  that's 
neither  here  nor  there — if  a  man  has  a  right 
to  his  champagne.  But  you  haven't.  You 
are  mistaken  about  your  wife.  She  was  all 
broken  up.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  she  was 
desperately  fond  of  you.  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  that.  But,  anyhow,  she  had 
made  for  herself  a  kind  of  life  of  which  you 
were  the  centre,  and  it  was  all  the  life  she 
had.  You  had  no  right  to  break  it  to  pieces 
getting  what  you  wanted.  That's  a  brutal 
thing  for  a  man  to  do.  She  looked  very  mis 
erable,  when  I  saw  her.  You've  got  to  go 
back." 

Witherle  turned  his  head  from  side  to  side 
restlessly,  as  a  sick  man  turns  on  the  pil 
low. 


1 6  A   BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"  How  can  I  go  back?  "  he  cried,  keenly 
protesting.  "  Don't  you  see  it's  impossible? 
I've  burned  my  ships." 

"  That's  easy  enough.  You  went  off  in  a 
fit  of  double  consciousness,  or  temporary  in 
sanity,  or  something  like  that,  and  I  found 
you  down  here.  It  will  be  easy  enough  to 
reinstate  you.  I'll  see  to  that." 

"That  would  be  a  lie,"  said  Witherle, 
resolutely. 

Lowndes  stared  at  him  curiously,  reflecting 
upon  the  fastidiousness  with  which  men  pick 
and  choose  their  offenses  against  righteous 
ness,  embracing  one  joyously  and  rejecting 
another  with  scorn. 

"Yes ;  so  it  would.  But  I  have  offered  to 
do  the  lying  for  you,  and  you  are  off  your 
head,  you  know." 

"How?"  demanded  Witherle,  sharply. 

"  Any  man  is  off  his  head  who  can't  take 
life  as  it  comes,  the  bad  and  the  good,  and 
bear  up  under  it.  Suicide  is  insanity.  You 
tried  to  commit  suicide  in  the  cowardliest 
way,  by  getting  rid  of  your  responsibilities 
and  saving  your  worthless  breath.  Old  man, 
it  won't  do.  You  say  you've  learned  some 
thing  about  religion  and  humanity — come 
back  and  tell  us  about  it." 


WITHERLE'S  FREEDOM  17 

Witherle  listened  to  his  sentence  in  silence. 
His  long  lower  lip  trembled. 

"  Anything  more?  "  he  demanded. 

"  That's  all.      It  won't  do." 

The  man  dropped  his  head  into  his  hands 
and  sat  absolutely  still.  Lowndes  watched 
the  river  growing  grayer  and  grayer,  and 
listened  to  the  lapping  of  the  water  against 
the  lumber,  remembering  that  one  of  the 
poets  had  said  it  was  a  risky  business  tamper 
ing  with  souls,  and  matter  enough  to  save 
one's  own.  The  reflection  made  him  feel  a 
little  faint.  What  if  Witherle  had  a  right  to 
that  life  in  spite  of  everything — that  life  for 
which  he  had  given  all  ? 

Witherle  lifted  his  head  at  last.  "You 
are  sure  my  wife  was  broken  up  over  it?" 
he  demanded,  despairingly. 

"Sure." 

Witherle  cast  one  longing  glance  across 
the  darkening  river  to  the  black  outlines  of 
the  barge.  There,  ah,  even  there,  the  breath 
of  life  was  sweet  upon  his  lips,  and  toil  was 
good,  and  existence  was  worth  while. 

"I  thought  no  soul  in  the  world  had  a 
claim  on  me.      Curse  duty  !     The  life  of  a 
rat  in  a  cage  !  "   he  cried.      "  Oh,  Lord,  I 
haven't  the  head  nor  the  heart  for  it  !  " 
2 


1 8  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

The  words  were  bitter,  but  his  voice  broke 
with  compliance.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  with  a  fierce  gesture, 
then  dropped  them  heavily  by  his  side. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said. 

Lowndes,  watching  him  with  that  curious, 
heart-sickening  sympathy  growing  upon  him, 
was  aware  that  he  had  seen  the  end  of  a 
soul's  revolt.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  Witherle's 
freedom  was  over. 


SERENE'S    RELIGIOUS    EXPERIENCE; 
AN   INLAND  STORY 


SERENE'S   RELIGIOUS    EXPERIENCE; 
AN   INLAND  STORY 

SERENE  and  young  Jessup,  the  school 
teacher,  were  leaning  over  the  front  gate 
together  in  the  warm  summer  dusk. 

"  See  them  sparkin'  out  there?  "  inquired 
Serene's  father,  standing  at  the  door  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  peering  out  specu- 
latively. 

"  Now,  father,  when  you  know  that  ain't 
Serene's  line." 

It  was  Mrs.  Sayles  who  spoke.  Perhaps 
there  was  the  echo  of  a  faint  regret  in  her 
voice,  for  she  wished  to  see  her  daughter 
"  respectit  like  the  lave  "  ;  but  "  sparkin'  " 
had  never  been  Serene's  line. 

"Serene  wouldn't  know  how,"  said  her 
big  brother. 

"  There's  other  things  that's  a  worse  waste 
o'  time,"  observed  Mr.  Sayles,  meditatively, 
"and  one  on  'em's  'Doniram  Jessup's  ever- 
lastin'  talk-talk-talkin'  to  no  puppus.  He's 


22  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

none  so  smart  if  he  does  teach  school.  He'd 
do  better  on  the  farm  with  his  father." 

"  He's  more'n  three  hundred  dollars 
ahead,  and  goin'  to  strike  out  for  himself,  he 
says,"  observed  the  big  brother,  admiringly. 

"  Huh  !  My  son,  I've  seen  smart  young 
men  strike  out  for  themselves  'fore  ever  you 
was  born,  and  I've  seen  their  fathers  swim 
out  after  'em — and  sink,"  said  Mr.  Sayles, 
oracularly. 

Outside  the  June  twilight  was  deepening, 
but  Serene  and  the  school-teacher  still  leaned 
tranquilly  over  the  picket  -  gate.  The  fra 
grance  of  the  lemon-lilies  that  grew  along 
the  fence  was  in  the  air,  and  over  Serene's 
left  shoulder,  if  she  had  turned  to  look,  she 
would  have  seen  the  slight  yellow  crescent  of 
the  new  moon  sliding  down  behind  the  trees. 

They  were  talking  eagerly,  but  it  was  only 
about  what  he  had  written  in  regard  to 
"  Theory  and  Practice  "  at  the  last  county 
examination. 

' '  I  think  you  carry  out  your  ideas  real 
well,"  Serene  said,  admiringly,  when  he  had 
finished  his  exposition.  "  'Tisn't  everybody 
does  that.  I  know  I've  learned  a  good  deal 
more  this  term  than  I  ever  thought  to  when 
I  started  in." 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        23 

The  teacher  was  visibly  pleased.  He  was 
a  slight,  wiry  little  fellow,  with  alert  eyes,  a 
cynical  smile,  and  an  expression  of  self-con 
fidence,  which  was  justifiable  only  on  the 
supposition  that  he  had  valuable  information 
as  to  his  talents  and  capacity  unknown  to 
the  world  at  large. 

"  I  think  you  have  learned  a  good  deal  of 
me,"  he  observed,  condescendingly  ;  "  more 
than  any  of  the  younger  ones.  I  have 
taken  some  pains  with  you.  It's  a  pleasure 
to  teach  willing  learners." 

At  this  morsel  of  praise,  expressed  in  such 
a  strikingly  original  manner,  Serene  flushed 
and  looked  prettier  than  ever.  She  was 
always  pretty,  this  slip  of  a  girl,  with  olive 
skin,  pink  cheeks,  and  big,  dark  eyes,  and 
she  always  looked  a  little  too  decorative,  too 
fanciful,  for  her  environment  in  this  sub 
stantial  brick  farm-house,  set  in  the  midst  of 
fat,  level  acres  of  good  Ohio  land.  It  was  as 
if  a  Dresden  china  shepherdess  had  been  put 
upon  their  kitchen  mantel-shelf. 

Don  Jessup  stooped  and  picked  a  cluster 
of  the  pink  wild  rosebuds,  whose  bushes 
were  scattered  along  the  road  outside  the 
fence,  and  handed  them  to  her  with  an  ad 
miring  look.  Why,  he  scarcely  knew ;  it  is 


24  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

as  involuntary  and  natural  a  thing  for  any 
one  to  pay  passing  tribute  to  a  pretty  girl 
as  for  the  summer  wind  to  kiss  the  clover. 
Serene  read  the  momentary  impulse  better 
than  he  did  himself,  and  took  the  buds  with 
deepening  color  and  a  beating  heart. 

"  He  gives  them  to  me  because  he  thinks 
I  look  like  that,"  she  thought  with  a  quick, 
happy  thrill. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  rather  confusedly,  his 
mind  being  divided  between  what  he  was 
saying  and  a  curiosity  to  find  out  if  she 
would  be  as  angry  as  she  was  the  last  time  if 
he  should  try  to  kiss  the  nearest  pink  cheek  ; 
"  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  idea  for  you  to 
keep  on  with  your  algebra  by  yourself,  and 
you  might  read  that  history  you  began.  I 
don't  know  who's  going  to  have  the  school 
next  fall.  Now,  if  I  were  going  to  be  here 
this  summer,  I " 

"Why,  Don,"  Serene  interrupted  him, 
using  the  name  she  had  not  often  spoken  since 
Adoniram  Jessup,  after  a  couple  of  years  in 
the  High  School,  had  come  back  to  live  at 
home,  and  to  teach  in  their  district — 
"why,  Don,  I  thought  your  mother  said 
you  were  going  to  help  on  the  farm  this 
summer." 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        25 

Adoniram  smiled,  a  thin-lipped,  compla 
cent  little  smile. 

"  Father  did  talk  that  some,  but  I've  de 
cided  to  go  West — and  I  start  to-morrow." 

To-morrow  !  And  that  great,  hungry 
West,  which  swallows  up  people  so  remorse 
lessly  !  Something  ailed  Serene's  heart ; 
she  hoped  he  could  not  hear  it  beating,  and 
she  waited  a  minute  before  saying,  quietly : 

"  Isn't  this  sort  of  sudden  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  to  air  my  plans  too  much. 
There's  many  a  slip,  you  know." 

"You'll  want  to  come  to  the  house  and 
say  good-by  to  the  folks,  and  tell  us  all  about 
it?"  As  he  nodded  assent,  she  turned 
and  preceded  him  up  the  narrow  path. 

"When  will  you  be  back?"  she  asked 
over  her  shoulder. 

"  Maybe  never.  If  I  have  any  luck,  I'd 
like  the  old  people  to  come  out  to  me.  I'm 
not  leaving  anything  else  here." 

"You  needn't  have  told  me  so."  said 
Serene  to  herself. 

"  Father,  boys,  here's  Don  come  in  to 
say  good-by.  He's  going  West  to-morrow." 

"Well,  'Doniram  Jessup !  Why  don't 
you  give  us  a  s' prise  party  and  be  done  with 
it?" 


26  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Don  smiled  cheerfully  at  this  tribute  to 
his  secretive  powers,  and  sitting  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  porch,  began  to  explain. 

Serene  glanced  around  to  see  that  all  were 
listening,  and  then  slipped  quietly  out  through 
the  kitchen  to  the  high  back  porch,  where 
she  found  a  seat  behind  the  new  patent 
"creamery,"  and  leaning  her  head  against 
it,  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  a  few  dry  sobs. 
Tears  she  dared  not  shed,  for  tears  leave 
traces.  Though  "sparkin'  "  had  not  been 
Serene's  line,  love  may  come  to  any  human 
creature,  and  little  Serene  had  learned  more 
that  spring  than  the  teacher  had  meant  to 
impart  or  she  to  acquire. 

When  the  five  minutes  she  had  allotted  to 
her  grief  were  past  she  went  back  to  the 
group  at  the  front  of  the  house  as  unnoticed 
as  she  had  left  them.  Her  father  was  chaff 
ing  Jessup  good-naturedly  on  his  need  of 
more  room  to  grow  in,  and  Don  was  respond 
ing  with  placid  ease.  It  was  not  chaff,  indeed, 
that  could  disturb  his  convictions  as  to  his 
personal  importance  to  the  development  of 
the  great  West.  Presently  he  rose  and  shook 
hands  with  them  all,  including  herself — for 
whom  he  had  no  special  word — said  a  gen 
eral  good-by,  and  left  them. 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        27 

"He's  thinking  of  himself,"  thought 
Serene  a  little  bitterly,  as  she  watched  him 
go  down  the  yard;  "he  is  so  full  of  his 
plans  and  his  future  he  hardly  knows  I  am 
here.  I  don't  believe  he  ever  knew  it !  " 

To  most  people  the  loss  of  the  possible 
affection  of  Don  Jessup  would  not  have 
seemed  a  heavy  one,  but  the  human  heart  is 
an  incomprehensible  thing,  and  the  next  six 
weeks  were  hard  for  Serene.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  realized  how  much  we 
can  want  that  which  we  may  not  have,  and 
she  rebelled  against  the  knowledge. 

"  Why  ?"  she  asked  herself,  and  "  why?  " 
Why  should  she  have  cared,  since  he,  it 
seemed,  did  not?  Why  couldn't  she  stop 
caring  now  ?  And,  oh,  why  had  he  been 
so  dangerously  kind  when  he  did  not  care  ? 
Poor  little  Serene  !  she  did  not  know  that 
we  involuntarily  feel  a  tenderness  almost  as 
exquisite  as  that  of  love  itself  toward  what 
ever  feeds  the  fountain  of  our  vanity. 

Presently,  tired  of  asking  herself,  she 
turned  to  asking  Heaven,  which  is  easier. 
For  we  cannot  comfortably  blame  ourselves 
for  the  inability  to  answer  our  own  incon 
venient  inquiries,  but  Heaven  we  can  both 
ask  and  blame.  Serene  had  never  troubled 


28  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Heaven  much  before,  but  now,  in  despera 
tion,  she  battered  at  its  portals  night  and 
day.  She  did  not  pray,  you  understand,  to 
be  given  the  love  which  many  small  signs 
had  taught  her  to  believe  might  be  hers,  the 
love  that,  nevertheless,  had  not  come  near  to 
her.  Though  young,  she  was  reasonable. 
She  instinctively  recognized  that  when  we 
cannot  be  happy  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  be 
comfortable,  if  we  are  still  to  live.  So,  after 
a  week  or  two  of  rebellion,  she  asked  for 
peace,  sure  that  if  it  existed  for  her  any 
where  in  the  universe,  God  held  it  in  His 
keeping,  for,  now,  no  mortal  did. 

She  prayed  as  she  went  about  her  work  by 
day ;  she  prayed  as  she  knelt  by  her  win 
dow  at  evening,  looking  out  on  the  star 
lit  world ;  she  prayed  when  she  woke  late  in 
the  night  and  found  her  room  full  of  the 
desolate  white  light  of  the  waning  moon, 
and  always  the  same  prayer. 

"Lord,"  said  Serene,  "this  is  a  little 
thing  that  I  am  going  through.  Make  me 
feel  that  it  is  a  little  thing.  Make  me  stop 
caring.  But  if  you  can' ' t,  then  show  me 
that  you  care  that  I  am  not  happy.  If  I 
could  feel  you  knew  and  cared,  I  think  I 
might  be  happier." 


SERENE'S   RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        29 

But  in  her  heart  she  felt  no  answer,  and 
peace  did  not  come  to  fill  the  place  of  hap 
piness. 

In  our  most  miserable  hours  fantastic 
troubles  and  apprehensions  of  the  impossible 
often  come  to  heap  themselves  upon  our  real 
griefs,  making  up  a  load  which  is  heavier 
than  we  can  bear.  Serene  began  to  wonder 
if  God  heard — if  He  was  there  at  all. 

Her  people  noticed  that  she  grew  thin  and 
tired-looking,  and  attributed  it  to  the  fierce 
hot  weather.  For  it  was  the  strange  summer 
long  remembered  in  the  inland  country 
where  they  lived  as  the  season  of  the  great 
drought.  There  had  been  a  heavy  snowfall 
late  in  April ;  from  that  time  till  late  in 
August  no  rain  fell.  The  heat  was  terrible. 
Dust  was  everywhere.  The  passage  of  time 
from  one  scorching  week  to  another  was 
measured  by  the  thickening  of  its  heavy 
inches  on  the  highway;  it  rose  in  clouds 
about  the  feet  of  cattle  in  the  burnt-up 
clover-fields.  The  roadside  grass  turned  to 
tinder,  and  where  a  careless  match  had  been 
dropped,  or  the  ashes  shaken  from  a  pipe, 
there  were  long,  black  stretches  of  seared 
ground  to  tell  the  tale.  The  resurrection  of 
the  dead  seemed  no  greater  miracle  than 


30  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

these  blackened  fields  should  shortly  turn  to 
living  green  again,  under  the  quiet  influence 
of  autumn  rains. 

And  now,  in  the  early  days  of  August, 
when  the  skies  were  brass,  the  sun  a  tongue 
of  flame,  and  the  yellow  dust  pervaded  the 
air  like  an  ever-thickening  fog,  a  strange 
story  came  creeping  up  from  the  country 
south  of  them.  "Down  in  Paulding," 
where  much  of  the  land  still  lay  under  the 
primeval  forest,  and  solitary  sawmills  were 
the  advance-guards  of  civilization;  where 
there  were  great  marshes,  deep  woods,  and 
one  impenetrable  tamarack  swamp,  seemed 
the  proper  place  for  such  a  thing  to  happen 
if  it  were  to  happen  at  all.  The  story  was 
of  a  farmer  who  went  out  one  Sunday  morn 
ing  to  look  at  his  corn-field,  forty  good  acres 
of  newly  cleared  land,  ploughed  this  year 
only  for  the  second  time.  The  stunted  stalks 
quivered  in  the  hot  air,  panting  for  water ; 
the  blades  were  drooping  and  wilted  like  the 
leaves  of  a  plant  torn  up  from  the  ground. 
He  looked  from  his  blasted  crop  to  the  piti 
less  skies,  and,  lifting  a  menacing  hand, 
cursed  Heaven  because  of  it.  Those  who 
told  the  story  quoted  the  words  he  used, 
with  voices  awkwardly  lowered;  but  there 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        31 

was  nothing  impressive  in  his  vulgar,  insen 
sate  defiance.  He  was  merely  swearing  a 
shade  more  imaginatively  than  was  his  wont. 
The  impressive  thing  was  that,  as  he  stood 
with  upraised  hand  and  cursing  lips,  he  was 
suddenly  stricken  with  paralysis,  and  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot,  holding  up  the  threaten 
ing  arm,  which  was  never  to  be  lowered. 
This  was  the  first  story.  They  heard  stranger 
things  afterward  :  that  his  family  were  unable 
to  remove  him  from  the  spot ;  that  he  was 
burning  with  an  inward  fire  which  did  not 
consume,  and  no  man  dared  to  lay  hand  on 
him,  or  even  approach  him,  because  of  the 
heat  of  his  body. 

It  was  said  that  this  was  clearly  a  judg 
ment,  and  it  was  much  talked  of  and  won 
dered  over.  Serene  listened  to  these  stories 
with  a  singular  exultation,  and  devoutly 
trusted  that  they  were  true.  She  had  needed 
a  visible  miracle,  and  here  was  one  to  her 
hand.  Why  should  not  such  things  happen 
now  as  well  as  in  Bible  days?  And  if  the 
Lord  descended  in  justice,  why  not  in 
mercy  ?  The  thing  she  hungered  for  was  to 
know  that  He  kept  in  touch  with  each  indi 
vidual  human  life,  that  He  listened,  that  He 
cared.  If  He  heard  the  voice  of  blasphemy, 


32  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

then  surely  He  was  not  deaf  to  that  of  praise 
— or  agony.  She  said  to  herself,  feverishly, 
"  I  must  know,  I  must  see  for  myself,  if  it  is 
true." 

She  said  to  her  father :  "  Don't  you  think 
I  might  go  down  to  Aunt  Mari's  in  Paulding 
for  a  week  ?  It  does  seem  as  if  it  might  be 
cooler  down  there  in  the  woods,"  and  her 
tired  face  attested  her  need  of  change  and 
rest.  He  looked  at  her  with  kindly  eyes. 

"Don't  s'pose  it  will  do  you  no  great 
harm,  if  your  mother '11  manage  without  you ; 
but  your  Aunt  Mari's  house  ain't  as  cool  as 
this  one,  Serene." 

"It's  different,  anyhow,"  said  the  girl, 
and  went  away  to  write  a  postal-card  to 
Aunt  Mari  and  to  pack  her  valise. 

When  she  set  out,  in  a  day  or  two,  it  was 
with  as  high  a  hope  as  ever  French  peasant 
maid  took  on  pilgrimage  to  Loretto.  She 
hoped  to  be  cured  of  all  her  spiritual  ills,  but 
how,  she  hardly  knew.  The  trip  was  one 
they  often  made  with  horses,  but  Serene, 
going  alone,  took  the  new  railroad  that  ran 
southward  into  the  heart  of  the  forests  and 
the  swamps.  Her  cousin  Dan,  with  his  colt 
and  road-cart,  met  her  at  the  clearing,  where 
a  shed  beside  a  water-tank  did  duty  for  town 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS   EXPERIENCE        33 

and  station,  and  drove  her  home.  Her  Aunt 
Mari  was  getting  dinner,  and,  after  removing 
her  hat,  Serene  went  out  to  the  kitchen,  and 
sat  down  on  the  settee.  The  day  was  stifling, 
and  the  kitchen  was  over-heated,  but  Aunt 
Mari  was  standing  over  the  stove  frying  ham 
with  unimpaired  serenity. 

"Well,  and  so  you  thought  it  would  be 
cooler  down  here,  Serene?  I'm  real  glad  to 
see  you,  but  I  can't  promise  much  of  noth 
ing  about  the  weather.  We  've  suffered  as 
much  as  most  down  here. ' ' 

Serene  saw  her  opportunity. 

' '  We  heard  your  corn  was  worse  than  it  is 
with  us.  What  was  there  in  that  story, 
Aunt  Mari,  about  the  man  who  was  par 
alyzed  on  a  Sunday  morning  ?  ' ' 

"  Par'lyzed,  child?  I  don't  know  as  I 
just  know  what  you  mean." 

"  But  he  lived  real  near  here,"  persisted 
Serene — "two  miles  south  and  three  east 
of  the  station,  they  said.  That  would  be 
just  south  of  here.  And  we've  heard  a  good 
deal  about  it.  You  must  know,  Aunt 
Mari." 

"Must  be  old  man  Burley's  sunstroke. 
That's  the  only  thing  that's  happened,  and 
there  was  some  talk  about  that.  He's  a 
3 


34  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Dunkard,  you  know,  and  they  are  mightily 
set  on  their  church.  Week  ago  Sunday  was 
their  day  for  love-feast,  and  it  was  a  hun 
dred  an'  seven  in  the  shade.  He  hadn't 
been  feelin'  well,  and  his  wife  she  just  begged 
him  not  to  go  out ;  but  he  said  he  guessed 
the  Lord  couldn't  make  any  weather  too 
hot  for  him  to  go  to  church  in.  So  he  just 
hitched  up  and  started,  but  he  got  a  sun 
stroke  before  he  was  half-way  there,  and 
they  had  to  turn  round  and  bring  him  home 
again.  He  come  to  all  right,  but  he  ain't 
well  yet.  Some  folks  thinks  what  he  said 
'bout  the  weather  was  pretty  presumpshus, 
but  I  dunno.  Seems  if  he  might  use  some 
freedom  of  speech  with  the  Lord  if  anybody 
could,  for  he's  been  a  profitable  servant.  A 
good  man  has  some  rights.  I  don't  hold 
with  gossipin'  'bout  such  things,  and  callin' 
on  'em  'visitations'  when  they  happen  to 
better  folks  than  me — why,  Serene !  what's 
the  matter  ?  "  in  a  shrill  crescendo  of  alarm, 
for  the  heat,  the  journey,  and  the  disap 
pointment  had  been  too  much  for  the  girl. 
Her  head  swam  as  she  grasped  the  gist  of  her 
aunt's  story,  and  perceived  that  upon  this 
simple  foundation  must  have  been  built  the 
lurid  tale  which  had  drawn  her  here,  and 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        35 

for  the  first  time  in  her  healthy,  unemotional 
life  she  quietly  fainted  away. 

When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  lying 
on  the  bed  in  Aunt  Mari's  spare  room.  The 
spare  room  was  under  the  western  eaves,  and 
there  were  feathers  on  the  bed.  Up  the 
stairway  from  the  kitchen  floated  the  perva 
sive  odor  of  frying  ham.  A  circle  of  anx 
ious  people,  whose  presence  made  the  stuffy 
room  still  stuffier,  were  eagerly  watching  her. 
Opening  her  languid  eyes  to  these  material 
discomforts  of  her  situation,  she  closed  them 
again.  She  felt  very  ill,  and  the  only  thing 
in  her  mind  was  the  conviction  that  had 
overtaken  her  just  as  she  fainted — "Then 
God  is  no  nearer  in  Paulding  than  at 
home. ' ' 

As  the  result  of  closing  her  eyes  seemed  to 
be  the  deluging  of  her  face  with  water  until 
she  choked,  she  decided  to  reopen  them. 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Mari,  heartily,  "that 
looks  more  like.  How  do  you  feel,  Serene  ? 
Wasn't  it  singular  that  you  should  go  off  so, 
just  when  I  was  tellin'  you  'bout  'Lishe  Bur- 
ley's  sunstroke  ?  I  declare,  I  was  frightened 
when  I  looked  around  and  saw  you.  Your 
uncle  would  bring  you  up  here  and  put  you 
on  the  bed,  though  I  told  him  't  was  cooler 


36  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

in  the  settin'-room.  But  beseemed  to  think 
this  was  the  thing  to  do." 

"  I  wish  he'd  take  me  down  again,"  said 
Serene,  feebly  and  ungratefully,  "and" 
(after  deliberation)  "put  me  in  the  spring- 
house.  ' ' 

"  What  you  need  is  somethin'  to  eat,"  said 
Aunt  Mari  with  decision.  "  I'll  make  you  a 
cup  of  hot  tea,  and  "  (not  heeding  the  gest 
ure  of  dissent)  "  I  don't  believe  that  ham's 
cold  yet." 

Serene  had  come  to  stay  a  week,  and  a 
week  accordingly  she  stayed.  The  days 
were  very  long  and  very  hot ;  the  nights  on 
the  feather-bed  under  the  eaves  still  longer 
and  hotter.  She  had  very  little  to  say  for 
herself,  and  thought  still  less.  There  is  a 
form  of  despair  which  amounts  to  coma. 

"  Serene's  never  what  you  might  call 
sprightly,"  observed  Aunt  Mari  in  confi 
dence  to  Uncle  Dan 'el,  "but  this  time, 
seems  if — well,  I  s'pose  it's  the  weather. 
Wonder  if  I'll  ever  see  any  weather  on  this 
earth  to  make  me  stop  talkin'  ?  "  It  was  a 
relief  all  around  when  the  day  came  for  her 
departure. 

"I'll  do  better  next  time,  Aunt  Mari," 
said  Serene  as  she  stepped  aboard  the  train  ; 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS   EXPERIENCE        37 

but  she  did  not  greatly  care  that  she  had  not 
done  well  this  time. 

When  the  short  journey  was  half  over,  the 
train  made  a  longer  stop  than  usual  at  one  of 
the  way  stations.  Then,  after  some  talking, 
the  passengers  gradually  left  the  car.  Serene 
noticed  these  things  vaguely,  but  paid  no  at 
tention  to  their  meaning.  Presently  a  friend 
ly  brakeman  approached  and  touched  her  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  'em  say,  Miss,  there 
was  a  freight  wreck  ahead,  and  we  can't  go 
on  till  the  track  is  clear?  " 

"How  long  will  it  be?"  asked  Serene, 
slowly  finding  the  way  out  of  her  reverie. 

"  Mebbe  two  hours  now,  and  mebbe 
longer.  I'll  carry  your  bag  into  the  depot, 
if  you  like,"  and  he  possessed  himself  of  the 
shiny  black  valise  seamed  with  grayish  cracks, 
and  led  the  way  out  of  the  car. 

The  station  at  Arkswheel  is  a  small  and 
grimy  structure  set  down  on  a  cinder  bank. 
Across  the  street  on  one  corner  is  a  foundry, 
and  opposite  that  a  stave-factory  with  a 
lumber-yard  about  it.  In  the  shadow  of  the 
piled-up  staves,  like  a  lily  among  thorns, 
stands  a  Gothic  chapel,  small,  but  architec 
turally  good.  Serene,  looking  out  of  the  dusty 


38  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

window,  saw  it,  and  wondered  that  a  church 
should  be  planted  in  such  a  place.  When, 
presently,  although  it  was  a  week-day,  the 
bell  began  to  ring,  she  turned  to  a  woman 
sitting  next  to  her  for  an  explanation. 

"That's  the  church  Mr.  Bellington  built. 
He  owns  the  foundry  here.  They  have 
meeting  there  'most  any  time.  Tiscopal,  it 
is." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  that  denomi 
nation,"  observed  Serene,  sedately. 

"My  husband's  sister-in-law  that  I  visit 
here  goes  there.  She  says  her  minister  just 
does  take  the  cake.  They  think  the  world 
an'  all  of  him." 

Serene  no  longer  looked  interested.  The 
woman  rose,  and  walked  about  the  room, 
examining  the  maps  and  time-tables.  By 
and  by  she  came  back  and  stopped  beside 
Serene. 

"If  we've  got  to  wait  till  nobody  knows 
when,  we  might  just  as  well  go  over  there  and 
see  what's  goin'  on — to  the  church,  I  mean. 
Mebbe  't  would  pass  the  time." 

Inside  the  little  church  the  light  was  so 
subdued  that  it  almost  produced  the  grateful 
effect  of  coolness.  As  they  sat  down  behind 
the  small  and  scattered  congregation,  Serene 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        39 

felt  that  it  was  a  place  to  rest.  The  service, 
which  she  had  never  heard  before,  affected 
her  like  music  that  she  did  not  understand. 
The  rector  was  a  young  man  with  a  heavily 
lined  face.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  troubled, 
his  voice  sweet  and  penetrating.  When  he 
began  his  sermon  she  became  suddenly  aware 
that  she  was  hearing  some  one  to  whom  what 
he  discerned  of  spiritual  truth  was  the  over 
whelmingly  important  thing  in  life,  and  she 
listened  eagerly.  This  was  St.  Bartholomew's 
day,  it  appeared.  Serene  did  not  remember 
very  clearly  who  he  was,  but  she  understood 
this  preacher  when,  dropping  his  notes  and 
leaning  over  his  desk,  he  seemed  to  be  scru 
tinizing  each  individual  face  in  the  audi 
ence  before  him  to  find  one  responsive  to  his 
words. 

He  was  not  minded,  he  said,  to  talk  to 
them  of  any  lesson  to  be  drawn  from 
the  life  of  St.  Bartholomew,  of  whom  so 
little  was  known  save  that  he  lived  in  and 
suffered  for  the  faith.  The  one  thought  that 
he  had  to  give  had  occurred  to  him  in  con 
nection  with  that  bloody  night's  work  in 
France  so  long  ago,  of  which  this  was  the 
anniversary,  when  thousands  were  put  to 
death  because  of  their  faith. 


40  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"  Such  things  do  not  happen  nowadays," 
he  went  on.  "  That  form  of  persecution  is 
over.  Instead  of  it,  we  have  seen  the  dawn 
ing  of  what  may  be  a  darker  day,  when  those 
who  profess  the  faith  of  Christ  have  them 
selves  turned  to  persecute  the  faith  which  is  in 
their  hearts.  Faith — the  word  means  to  me 
that  trust  in  God's  plans  for  us  which  brings 
confidence  to  the  soul  even  when  we  stand 
in  horrible  fear  of  life,  and  mental  peace  even 
when  we  are  facing  that  which  we  cannot 
understand.  We  persecute  our  faith  in  many 
ingenious  ways,  but  perhaps  those  torture 
themselves  most  whose  religion  is  most  emo 
tional — those  who  are  only  sure  that  God  is 
with  them  when  they  feel  the  peace  of  His 
presence  in  their  hearts.  A  great  divine  said 
long  ago  that  to  love  God  thus  is  to  love  Him 
for  the  spiritual  loaves  and  fishes,  which  He 
does  not  mean  always  to  be  our  food.  But 
for  those  who  think  that  He  is  not  with 
them  when  they  are  unaware  of  His  presence 
so,  I  have  this  word  :  When  you  cannot  find 
God  in  your  hearts,  then  turn  and  look  for 
Him  in  your  lives.?  When  you  are  soul-sick, 
discouraged,  unhappy ;  when  you  feel  neither 
joy  nor  peace,  nor  even  the  comfort  of  a  dull 
satisfaction  in  earth;  when  life  is  nothing  to 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        41 

you,  and  you  wish  for  death,  then  ask  your 
self,  What  does  God  mean  by  this?  For 
there  is  surely  some  lesson  for  you  in  that 
pain  which  you  must  learn  before  you  leave 
it.  You  are  not  so  young  as  to  believe  that 
you  were  meant  for  happiness.  You  know 
that  you  were  made  for  discipline.  And  the 
discipline  of  life  is  the  learning  of  the  things 
God  wishes  us  to  know,  even  in  hardest 
ways.  But  He  is  in  the  things  we  must  learn, 
and  in  the  ways  we  learn  them.//  There  is  a 
marginal  reading  of  the  first  chapter  of  the 
revised  version  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John 
which  conveys  my  meaning:  'That  which 
hath  been  made  was  life  in  Him,  and  the  life 
[or,  as  some  commentators  read,  and  I  prefer 
it,  simply  life]  was  the  light  of  men.'  That 
is,  before  Christ's  coming  the  light  of  men 
was  in  the  experience  to  be  gained  in  the 
lives  He  gave  them.  And  it  is  still  true.  Not 
His  life  only,  then,  but  your  life  and  mine, 
which  we  know  to  the  bitter-sweet  depths, 
and  whose  lessons  grow  clearer  and  clearer 
before  us,  are  to  guide  us.  Life  is  the  light 
of  men.  I  sometimes  think  that  this,  and 
this  only,  is  rejecting  Christ  —  to  refuse  to 
find  Him  in  the  life  He  gives  us." 

Serene  heard   no  more.      What  else  was 


42  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

said  she  did  not  know.  She  had  seized 
upon  his  words,  and  was  applying  them  to  her 
own  experiences  with  a  fast-beating  heart, 
to  see  if  haply  she  had  learned  anything  by 
them  that  "God  wanted  her  to  know." 
She  had  loved  unselfishly.  Was  not  that 
something  ?  She  had  learned  that  despair 
and  distrust  are  not  the  attitudes  in  which 
loss  may  be  safely  met.  She  had  become 
conscious  in  a  blind  way  that  the  world  was 
larger  and  nearer  to  her  than  it  used  to  be, 
and  she  was  coming  to  feel  a  sense  of  com 
munity  in  all  human  suffering.  Were  not  all 
these  good  things  ? 

When  the  congregation  knelt  for  the  last 
prayer,  Serene  knelt  with  them,  but  did  not 
rise  again.  She  did  not  respond  even  when 
her  companion  touched  her  on  the  shoulder 
before  turning  to  go.  She  could  not  lift  her 
face  just  then,  full  as  it  was  of  that  strange 
rapture  which  came  of  the  sudden  clear 
realization  that  her  life  was  the  tool  in  the 
hands  of  the  Infinite  by  which  her  soul  was 
shaped.  "  Let  me  be  chastened  forever,"  the 
heart  cries  in  such  a  moment,  "  so  that  I  but 
learn  more  of  thy  ways !  ' ' 

Some  one  came  slowly  down  the  aisle  at 
last,  and  stopped,  hesitating,  beside  the  pew 


SERENE'S  RELIGIOUS  EXPERIENCE        43 

where  she  still  knelt.  Serene  looked  up.  It 
was  the  rector.  He  saw  a  slender  girl  in 
unbecoming  dress,  whose  wild-rose  face  was 
quivering  with  excitement.  She  saw  a  man, 
not  old,  whose  thin  features  nevertheless 
wore  the  look  of  one  who  has  faced  life  for 
a  long  time  dauntlessly — the  face  of  a  good 
fighter. 

"  Oh,  sir,  is  it  true  what  you  said?  "  she 
demanded,  breathlessly. 

"It  is  what  I  live  upon,"  he  answered, 
"  the  belief  that  it  is  true."  And  then,  be 
cause  he  saw  that  she  had  no  further  need  of 
him,  he  passed  on,  and  left  her  in  the  little 
church  alone.  When  at  length  she  recrossed 
the  street  to  the  station,  the  train  was  ready, 
and  in  another  hour  she  was  at  home. 

They  were  glad  to  see  her  at  home,  and 
they  had  a  great  deal  to  tell  that  had  hap 
pened  to  them  in  the  week.  They  wondered 
a  little  that  she  did  not  relate  more  concern 
ing  her  journey,  but  they  were  used  to 
Serene's  silences,  and  her  mother  was  satis 
fied  with  the  effect  of  the  visit  when  she  ob 
served  that  Serene  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in 
everything  she  did,  even  in  the  washing  of 
the  supper-dishes. 

There  were  threatening  clouds  in  the  sky 


44  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

that  evening,  as  there  had  often  been  before 
that  summer,  but  people  were  weary  of  say 
ing  that  it  looked  like  a  shower.  Neverthe 
less,  when  Serene  woke  in  the  night,  not 
only  was  there  vivid  lightning  in  the  sky, 
and  the  roll  of  distant  but  approaching 
thunder,  but  there  was  also  the  unfamiliar 
sound  of  rain  blown  sharply  against  the  roof, 
and  a  delicious  coolness  in  the  room.  The 
long  drought  was  broken. 

She  sat  up  in  her  white  bed  to  hear  the 
joyous  sound  more  clearly.  It  was  as  though 
the  thunder  said,  "Lift  up  your  heart!  " 
And  the  rapturous  throbbing  of  the  rain 
seemed  like  the  gracious  downpouring  of  a 
needed  shower  on  her  own  parched  and 
thirsty  life. 


AN  INSTANCE  OF   CHIVALRY 


AN   INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY 

APPLEGATE  entered  his  door  that  night 
with  a  delightful  sense  of  the  difference 
between  the  sharp  November  air  without  and 
the  warmth  and  brightness  within,  but  as  he 
stood  in  the  little  square  hall  taking  off  his 
overcoat,  this  comfortable  feeling  gave  way 
to  a  heart-sick  shrinking  of  which  he  was 
unashamed.  He  was  a  man  of  peace,  and 
through  the  closed  door  of  the  sitting-room 
came  the  sound  of  voluble  and  angry  speech. 
The  voice  was  that  of  Mrs.  Applegate. 

Reluctantly  he  pushed  open  the  door.  It 
was  a  pretty  quarrel  as  it  stood.  At  one  end 
of  the  little  room,  gay  with  light  and  color, 
was  Julie,  leaning  on  the  mantel.  She  wore 
a  crimson  house-dress  a  trifle  low  at  the 
throat,  which  set  off  vividly  her  rich,  dark 
beauty.  Undoubtedly  she  had  beauty,  and 
a  singular,  gypsy-like  piquancy  as  well.  It 
did  not  seem  to  matter  that  the  gown  was 
slightly  shabby.  She  was  kicking  the  white 


4<S  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

fur  hearth-rug  petulantly  now  and  then  to 
punctuate  her  remarks. 

Dora,  with  her  book  in  her  lap,  sat  in  a 
low  chair  by  the  lamp.  Dora  was  a  slender, 
self-possessed  girl  of  fifteen,  in  whose  cold, 
young  eyes  her  step-mother  had  read  from 
the  first  a  concentrated  and  silent  disap 
proval  which  was  really  very  exasperating. 

"It's  the  first  time  that  woman  has  set 
foot  in  this  house  since  I've  been  the  mistress 
of  it,"  Julie  was  saying,  angrily.  "  Maybe 
she  thinks  I  ain't  fine  enough  for  her  to  call 
on.  Lord  !  I'd  like  to  tell  her  what  I  think 
of  her.  It  was  her  business  to  ask  for  me, 
and  it  was  your  business  to  call  me,  whether 
she  did  or  not.  Maybe  you  think  I  ain't 
enough  of  a  lady  to  answer  Mrs.  Buel  Parry's 
questions.  I'd  like  to  have  you  remember 
I'm  your  father's  wife  !  " 

Dora's  head  dropped  lower  in  an  agony  of 
vicarious  shame.  How,  her  severe  young 
mind  was  asking  itself,  could  any  woman 
bear  to  give  herself  away  to  such  an  appal 
ling  extent  ?  To  reveal  that  one  had 
thwarted  social  ambitions  ;  to  admit  that  one 
might  not  seem  a  lady — degradation  could 
go  no  farther  in  the  young  girl's  eyes. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Dora  ?  "  asked  Apple- 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY     49 

gate,  quietly,  in  the  lull  following  Julie's 
last  remark. 

"  Mrs.  Parry  came  to  the  door  to  ask 
what  sort  of  a  servant  Mary  Samphill  had 
been.  Mamma  was  in  the  kitchen,  teaching 
the  new  girl  how  to  mould  bread,  and  I 
answered  Mrs.  Parry's  questions.  She  did 
not  ask  for  any  one." 

"  I  say  it  was  Dora's  business  to  ask  her  in 
and  call  me.  Whose  servant  was  Mary  Samp- 
hill,  I'd  like  to  know.  Was  she  Dora's?  " 

Applegate  crossed  the  room  to  the  open 
fire  and  stretched  his  chilled  fingers  to  the 
flame. 

"  Aren't  you  a  little  unreasonable,  Julie  ?  " 
he  inquired,  gently.  "  If  Mrs.  Parry  didn't 
ask  for  you,  I  don't  quite  see  what  Dora 
could  do  but  answer  her  questions. ' ' 

' '  Me  unreasonable  ?  I  like  that !  Mrs. 
Buel  Parry  came  to  this  house  to  see  me,  but 
Dora  was  bound  I  shouldn't  see  her.  Dora 
thinks" — she  hesitated  a  moment,  choking 
with  her  resentment  —  "she  thinks  I  ain't 
Mrs.  Parry's  kind,  and  she  was  going  to  be 
considerate  and  keep  us  apart.  Oh,  yes  !  She 
thinks  she  knows  what  the  upper  crust  wants. 
If  I'm  not  Mrs.  Parry's  sort,  I'd  like  to  know 
why.  You  thought  I  was  your  sort  fast 
4 


50  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

enough,  John  Applegate  !  "  and  Julie  threw 
back  her  dark  head  with  a  gesture  that  was 
very  fine  in  its  insolence.  "  I  guess  if  Mrs. 
Parry  and  Mrs.  Otis  and  that  set  are  com 
pany  for  you,  they're  company  for  me.  Of 
course  you  take  Dora's  side.  You  always 
do.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing.  When  I  was 
Frazer  MacDonald's  wife  I  had  some  things 
I  don't  have  now,  for  all  you  think  you're  so 
fine.  MacDonald  never  would  have  stood 
by  and  seen  me  put  upon.  If  folks  wasn't 
civil  to  his  wife,  he  knew  the  reason  why.  I 
might  have  done  better  than  marry  you  —  I 
might ' ' 

Julie  stopped  to  take  breath. 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  make  Mrs.  Parry 
call  on  you  if  she  doesn't  want  to,  Julie?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  marrying  a  man 
who  can't  do  anything  for  you?  "  she  de 
manded.  "  It  isn't  any  more  than  my  due 
she  should  call,  and  you  know  it.  She  was 
thick  enough  with  your  first  wife.  And 
me  to  be  treated  so  after  all  I've  done  for 
you  and  your  children.  I  give  you  notice 
I'm  going  to  Pullman  to-morrow,  and  I'm 
going  to  stay  till  I  get  good  and  ready  to 
come  back.  Maybe  you'll  find  out  who 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY  51 

makes  this  house  comfortable  for  you,  John 
Applegate.  Maybe  you  will." 

And  with  this  Julie  slipped  across  the 
room  —  she  could  not  be  ungraceful  even 
when  she  was  most  violent — and  left  it,  shut 
ting  the  door  with  emphasis. 

There  was  deep  silence  between  Applegate 
and  his  daughter  for  a  little  while.  Why 
should  either  speak  when  there  was  really 
nothing  to  say  ? 

"  Supper  is  on  the  table,  father,"  observed 
Dora,  at  last.  "There  is  no  use  in  letting 
it  get  any  colder,"  and  still  in  silence  they 
went  to  their  meal. 

Julie  MacDonald,  born  Dessaix,  was  the 
daughter  of  a  French  market-gardener  and  of 
a  Spanish  woman,  the  danseuse  of  a  travel 
ling  troupe,  who,  when  the  company  was  left 
stranded  in  an  Indiana  town,  married  this 
thrifty  admirer.  The  latter  part  of  Julie's 
childhood  was  passed  in  a  convent  school, 
whence  she  emerged  at  fifteen  a  rabid  little 
Protestant  with  manners  which  the  Sisters 
had  subdued  slightly  but  had  not  been  able 
to  make  gentle.  She  learned  the  milliner's 
trade,  which  she  practised  until,  at  twenty- 
two,  she  married  Frazer  MacDonald,  a 
gigantic,  red-haired  Scotch  surveyor. 


52  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

A  few  years  after  their  marriage  Mac- 
Donald  went  West,  intending  to  establish 
himself  and  then  send  for  Julie,  whom  he 
left  meanwhile  with  her  sister,  the  wife  of  a 
well-to-do  mechanic  living  in  Pullman.  His 
train  was  wrecked  somewhere  in  Arizona 
and  the  ruins  took  fire.  MacDonald  was 
reported  among  those  victims  whose  bodies 
were  too  badly  burned  for  complete  identi 
fication,  and  though  Julie  refused  to  believe 
it  at  first,  when  the  long  days  brought  no 
tidings  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  it  was  true. 

She  established  herself  at  her  old  trade 
in  one  of  the  county  towns  of  the  Indiana 
prairie  country,  where  she  worked  and  pros 
pered  for  three  years  before  John  Applegate 
asked  her  to  marry  him. 

At  the  convent  they  had  tried  to  teach  her 
to  worship  God,  but  abstractions  were  not  in 
Julie's  line.  Respectability  was  more  tangi 
ble  than  righteousness,  and  deference  to  the 
opinion  of  the  world  an  idea  she  could  grasp. 
The  worship  of  appearances  came  to  be 
Julie's  religion.  Nothing  could  be  more 
respectable  than  John  Applegate,  who  was  a 
hardware  dealer  and  one  of  Belleplaine's 
leading  merchants,  and  she  accepted  him 
with  an  almost  religious  enthusiasm. 


AN   INSTANCE   OF  CHIVALRY  53 

The  hardware  business  in  a  rich  farming 
country  is  a  good  one.  And  then,  in  her 
own  very  unreasonable  way,  Julie  was  fond 
of  Applegate. 

"  A  little  mouse  of  a  man,  yes,"  she  said 
to  herself,  "  but  such  a  good  little  mouse  ! 
I'll  have  my  way  with  things.  When  Mac- 
Donald  was  alive  he  had  his  way.  Now  — 
we'll  see." 

As  for  Applegate,  he  was  just  an  average, 
unheroic,  common-place  man,  such  stuff  as 
the  mass  of  people  are  made  of.  Having 
decided  to  remarry  for  the  sake  of  his  chil 
dren,  he  committed  the  not-uncommon  in 
consistency  of  choosing  a  woman  who  could 
never  be  acceptable  to  them  and  who  suited 
himself  entirely  only  in  certain  rare  and  un- 
reckoning  moods  which  were  as  remote  from 
the  whole  trend  of  his  existence  as  scarlet  is 
from  slate-color.  But  he  found  this  untamed 
daughter  of  the  people  distinctly  fascinating, 
and,  with  the  easy  optimism  of  one  whose 
eyes  are  blinded  by  beauty,  assured  himself 
that  it  would  come  out  all  right. 

His  little  daughter  kissed  him  dutifully 
and  promised  to  try  to  be  a  good  girl  when 
he  told  her  he  was  going  to  bring  a  new 
mamma  home,  a  pretty,  jolly  mamma,  who 


54  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

would  be  almost  a  play-mate  for  her  and 
Teddy,  but  secretly  she  felt  a  prescience  that 
this  was  not  the  kind  of  mamma  she  wanted. 

A  few  weeks  after  his  marriage  her  father 
found  her  one  day  shaking  in  a  passion  of 
childhood's  bitter,  ineffectual  tears.  With 
great  difficulty  he  succeeded  in  getting  an 
explanation.  It  came  in  whispers,  trem 
blingly. 

' '  Papa,  she — she  says  bad  words !  And 
this  morning  Teddy  said  one  too.  Oh, 
Papa  " — the  sobs  broke  out  afresh  —  "  how 
can  he  grow  up  to  be  nice  and  how  am  I 
going  to  get  to  be  a  lady — a  lady  like  my 
own  mamma — if  nobody  shows  us  how  ?  ' ' 

Applegate  dropped  his  head  on  his  chest 
with  a  smothered  groan.  For  himself  he  had 
not  minded  the  occasional  touches  of  pro 
fanity — to  do  her  justice,  they  were  rare  — 
with  which  Julie  emphasized  her  speech,  for 
they  had  only  seemed  a  part  of  the  alien, 
piquantly  un-English  element  in  her  which 
attracted  him,  but  when  Dora  looked  up  at 
him  with  his  dead  wife's  eyes  he  could  not 
but  acknowledge  the  justice  of  her  tragic 
horror  of  ' '  bad  words. ' ' 

"  What  have  I  done?  "  he  asked  himself 
as  the  child  nestled  closer,  and  then,  "  What 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY     55 

shall  I  do  ?  "  for  he  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  a  future  before  whose  problems  he 
shrank  helplessly. 

One  does  not  decide  upon  the  merits  of 
falcons  according  to  the  traditions  of  doves, 
and  it  would  be  quite  as  unjust  to  judge 
Julie  Applegate  from  what  came  to  be  the 
standpoint  of  her  husband  and  his  children. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  she  made  life  hideous 
to  them,  but  this  result  was  accidental  rather 
than  intentional.  There  are  those  to  whom 
the  unbridled  speech  of  natures  without  dis 
cipline  is  as  much  a  matter  of  course  as  the 
sunshine  and  the  rain.  If  to  Applegate  and 
Dora  it  was  thunder-burst  and  cyclone,  whose 
was  the  blame  ? 

And  if  one  is  considering  the  matter  of 
grievances,  Julie  certainly  had  hers.  Most 
acute  of  all,  she  had  expected  to  acquire  a 
certain  social  prominence  by  her  marriage, 
but  was  accorded  only  a  grudging  toleration 
by  the  circle  to  which  the  first  Mrs.  Apple- 
gate  had  belonged.  This  was  the  more 
grinding  from  the  fact  that  in  Belleplaine,  as 
in  all  small  towns  of  the  great  Middle-West, 
social  distinctions  are  based  upon  personal 
quality  and  not  upon  position. 

Then,    there   was    Dora.       From    Julie's 


56  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

point  of  view  tempers  were  made  to  lose,  but 
Dora  habitually  retained  hers  with  a  dignity 
which,  while  it  endeared  her  to  her  father, 
only  exasperated  his  wife.  Julie  developed 
an  inordinate  jealousy  of  the  girl,  and  the 
love  of  the  father  and  daughter  became  a  rod 
to  scourge  them.  With  the  most  pacific  in 
tentions  in  the  world  it  was  impossible  to 
divine  what  would  or  what  would  not  offend 
Julie. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  family  quarrel  re 
corded,  Julie  departed  for  Pullman,  accord 
ing  to  her  threat,  and  for  a  few  days  there 
after  life  was  delightfully  peaceful.  Dora 
exhibited  all  sorts  of  housewifely  aptitudes 
and  solicitudes,  the  wheels  of  the  household 
machinery  moved  smoothly,  and  the  domes 
tic  amenities  blossomed  unchecked. 

Julie  had  been  gone  a  week,  a  week  of 
golden  Indian  summer  weather,  when  one 
day,  as  Applegate  was  leaving  the  house  af 
ter  dinner,  he  was  met  by  the  telegraph  boy 
just  coming  in.  He  stopped  at  the  gate  and 
tore  the  message  open.  It  was  from  Julie's 
brother-in-law,  Hopson,  and  condensed  in 
its  irreverent  ten  words  a  stupefying  amount 
of  information.  Applegate  stared  at  it,  un 
able  to  understand. 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY  57 

"  Mac  Donald  has  come  alive.  Claims 
Julie.  High  old  times.  Come." 

He  crushed  the  yellow  paper  in  his 
hands,  and  turning  back,  sat  down  heavily 
upon  the  steps  of  the  veranda,  staring 
stupidly  ahead  of  him.  If  this  were  true, 
what  did  it  mean  to  him  ?  Out  of  the 
hundred  thoughts  assailing  him  one  only 
was  clear  and  distinct.  '  It  meant  that  he 
was  free  ! 

He  turned  the  telegram  over  in  his  fingers, 
touching  it  with  the  look  of  one  who  sees 
visions. 

Free.  His  home — his  pretty  home — his 
own  again,  with  Dora,  who  grew  daily  more 
like  her  mother,  as  his  little  housekeeper. 
Free  from  that  tempestuous  presence  which 
repelled  even  while  it  attracted.  Free  from 
the  endless  scenes,  the  tiresome  bickerings, 
the  futile  jealousies,  the  fierce  reproaches  and 
the  fierce  caresses,  both  of  which  wearied  him 
equally  now.  He  had  scarcely  known  how 
all  these  things  which  he  bore  in  silence  had 
worn  and  weighed  upon  him,  but  he  knew 
at  last.  The  measure  of  the  relief  was  the 
measure  of  the  pressure  also.  The  tears 
trickled  weakly  down  his  cheeks,  and  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  as  if  to  hide  his 


58  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

thankfulness  even  from  himself.  The  pros 
pect  overwhelmed  him.  No  boy's  delight 
nor  man's  joy  had  ever  been  so  sweet  as 
this.  When  he  looked  up,  the  pale  Novem 
ber  sunlight  seemed  to  hold  for  him  a  prom 
ise  more  alluring  than  that  of  all  the  May- 
time  suns  that  ever  shone — the  promise  of  a 
quiet  life. 

As  he  accustomed  himself  to  this  thought, 
there  came  others  less  pleasant.  The  pre 
eminently  distasteful  features  of  the  situation 
began  to  raise  their  heads  and  hiss  at  him 
like  a  coil  of  snakes.  He  shrank  nervously 
from  the  gossip  and  the  publicity.  This  was 
a  hideous,  repulsive  thing  to  come  into  the 
lives  of  upright  people  who  had  thought  to 
order  their  ways  according  to  the  laws  of 
God  and  man.  It  was  only  Julie's  due  to 
say  she  had  intended  that.  But  it  had  come 
and  must  be  met.  Julie  was  MacDonald's 
wife,  not  his — not  his.  The  only  thing  to 
be  done  was  to  accept  the  situation  quietly. 
He  knew  that  his  own  compensation  was 
ample — no  price  could  be  too  great  to  pay 
for  this  new  joy  of  freedom — but  he  shivered 
a  little  when  he  thought  of  Julie  with  her 
incongruous  devotion  to  the  customary  and 
the  respectable.  It  would  hurt  Julie  cruelly, 


AN   INSTANCE   OF  CHIVALRY  59 

but  there  was  no  one  to  blame  and  no  help 
for  it.  And  MacDonald  could  take  her 
away  into  the  far  new  West  and  make  her 
forget  this  miserable  interlude.  He  knew 
that  for  MacDonald,  who  was  of  a  different 
fibre  from  himself,  Julie's  charm  had  been 
sufficient  and  enduring.  Whatever  might 
be  the  explanation  of  his  long  absence,  Ap- 
plegate  did  not  doubt  that  the  charm  still 
endured.  And,  in  the  end,  even  they  them 
selves  would  forget  this  unhappy  time  which 
was  just  ahead  of  them,  and  its  memory 
would  cease  to  seem  a  shame  and  become 
a  regret,  whose  bitterness  the  passing  years 
would  lessen  tenderly. 

Having  thus  adjusted  the  ultimate  outcome 
of  the  situation  to  suit  the  optimism  of  his 
mood,  Applegate  drew  out  his  watch  and 
looked  at  it.  He  had  just  time  to  make  the 
necessary  arrangements  and  catch  the  after 
noon  train  for  Chicago. 

He  telegraphed  to  Hopson,  and  as  he  left 
the  train  that  evening  he  found  the  man 
awaiting  him.  The  two  shook  hands  awk 
wardly  and  walked  away  together  in  silence. 
It  was  only  after  they  had  gone  a  block  or 
two  that  Hopson  said  : 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you've  got  here.  We've 


60  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

been  having  a  picnic  up  at  the  house. 
Julie's  been  having  the  hysterics  and  Mac- 
Donald — you  never  knew  MacDonald,  did 
you?" 

Applegate  listened  politely.  He  had  a 
curious  feeling  that  Julie  and  her  hysterics 
were  already  very  far  away  and  unimportant 
to  him,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  be  so  brutal 
as  to  show  this. 

"  When  did  MacDonald  return  and  where 
has  he  been?  "  he  asked,  gravely. 

' '  He  got  here  yesterday.  He  says  he  had 
a  shock  or  something  in  that  accident — any 
how,  he  just  couldn't  remember  anything, 
and  when  he  come  to  he  didn't  know  who 
he  was,  nor  anything  about  himself,  and  all 
his  papers  and  clothes  had  been  burnt,  so 
there  was  nothing  to  show  anybody  who  he 
was.  He  could  work,  and  he  was  all  right 
most  ways.  Says  he  was  that  way  till  about 
six  months  ago,  when  a  Frisco  doctor  got  hold 
of  him  and  did  something  to  his  head  that 
put  him  right.  He  has  papers  from  the 
doctor  to  show  it's  true.  His  case  attracted 
lots  of  attention  out  there.  Of  course  he 
wrote  to  Julie  when  he  came  to  himself,  but 
his  letters  went  to  our  old  address  and  she 
never  got  them.  So  then  he  started  East  to 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY  61 

see  about  it.     He  says  he's  got  into  a  good 
business  and  is  going  to  do  well. ' ' 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Presently  Hop- 
son  began  again,  awkwardly : 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it,  but 
I  think  Julie'd  ought  to  go  back  to  him." 

Applegate's  heart  began  to  beat  in  curi 
ous,  irregular  throbs  ;  he  could  feel  the  puls 
ing  of  the  arteries  in  his  neck  and  there 
was  a  singing  in  his  ears. 

"  Of  course  Julie  agrees  with  you  ?  "  he 
said,  thickly. 

"  Well,  no ;  she  don't.  That's  what  she 
wanted  me  to  talk  to  you  about.  She  can't 
see  it  but  one  way.  She  says  he  died,  or  if 
he  didn't  it  was  the  same  thing  to  her,  and 
she  married  you.  She  says  nobody  can 
have  two  husbands,  and  it's  you  who  are 
hers.  I  told  her  the  law  didn't  look  at  it 
that  way,  and  she  says  then  she  must  get  a 
divorce  from  MacDonald  and  remarry  you. 
MacDonald  says  if  she  brings  suit  on  the 
ground  of  desertion  he  will  fight  it.  He 
says  he  can  prove  it  ain't  been  no  wilful 
desertion.  But  probably  he  could  be  brought 
round  if  he  saw  she  wouldn't  go  back  to  him 
anyhow.  MacDonald  wouldn't  be  spiteful. 
But  he  was  pretty  fond  of  Julie." 


62  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Applegate  had  stopped  suddenly  in  the 
middle  of  Hopson's  speech.  Now  he  went 
forward  rapidly,  but  he  made  no  answer. 
Hopson  scrutinized  his  face  a  moment  be 
fore  he  continued  : 

"  Julie  says  you  won't  be  spiteful  either. 
She  says  maybe  she  was  a  little  hasty  in  what 
she  said  just  before  she  came  up  here.  But 
you  know  Julie's  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  Applegate,  "  I  know  Julie's 
way. ' ' 

Hopson  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  He  had 
at  least  discharged  himself  of  his  interces 
sory  mission. 

"  I  tell  Julie  she'd  better  put  up  with  it 
and  go  with  MacDonald.  The  life  would 
be  more  the  sort  of  thing  she  likes.  But 
her  head's  set  and  she  won't  hear  to  any 
thing  Henriette  or  I  say.  You  see,  that's 
what  Julie  holds  by,  what  she  thinks  is 
respectable.  And  it's  about  all  she  does 
hold  by."  He  hesitated,  groping  blindly 
about  in  his  consciousness  for  words  to 
express  his  feeling  that  this  passionate, 
reckless  nature  was  only  anchored  to  the 
better  things  of  life  by  her  fervent  belief  in 
the  righteousness  of  the  established  social 
order. 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY     63 

"Julie  thinks  everything  of  being  respect 
able,"  he  concluded,  lamely. 

"Is  it  much  farther  to  your  house?" 
asked  Applegate,  dully. 

"  Right  here,"  answered  Hopson,  pulling 
his  key  from  his  pocket. 

They  entered  a  crude  little  parlor  whose 
carpet  was  too  gaudy,  and  whose  plush 
furniture  was  too  obviously  purchased  at  a 
bargain,  but  its  air  was  none  the  less  heavy 
with  tragedy.  A  single  gas-jet  flickered  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  On  one  side  a  great, 
broad-shouldered  fellow  sat  doggedly  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands.  There  was  resistance  in  every 
line  of  his  figure.  On  the  sofa  opposite  was 
Julie  in  her  crimson  dress.  As  she  lifted  her 
face  eagerly,  Applegate  noticed  traces  of 
tears  upon  it.  Mrs.  Hopson,  who  had  been 
moving  about  the  room  aimlessly,  a  pale  and 
ineffective  figure  between  these  two  vivid 
personalities,  came  to  a  standstill  and  looked 
at  Applegate  breathlessly.  For  a  moment 
no  one  spoke.  Then  Julie,  baffled  by  the 
eyes  she  could  not  read,  sprang  to  her  feet 
and  stretched  out  her  hands  with  a  vehe 
ment  gesture. 

"John  Applegate,  you'll  put  me  right! 


64  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

You  will.  I  know  you  will.  I  can't  go 
back  to  him!  How  can  I?"  Her  hun 
gry  eyes  scrutinized  his  still,  inexpressive 
face. 

"  John,  you  aren't  going  to  turn  me  off?  " 
Her  voice  had  a  despairing  passion  in  it. 
"  You  won't  refuse  to  marry  me  if  I  get  the 
divorce?  Good  God  !  You  can't  be  such  a 
devil.  John  !  oh,  John  !  " 

Applegate  sat  down  and  looked  at  her 
apathetically.  He  was  not  used  to  being 
called  a  devil.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  him 
the  term  was  misapplied. 

"  Don't  take  on  so,  Julie,"  he  said,  qui 
etly.  The  room  seemed  to  whirl  around 
him,  and  he  added,  with  a  palpable  effort : 

"  I'll  think  it  over  and  try  to  do  what  is 
best  for  both  of  us." 

At  that  MacDonald  lifted  his  sullen  face 
from  his  hands  for  the  first  time  and  glanced 
across  at  the  other  man  with  blood-shot  eyes. 
Then  he  rose  slowly,  his  great  bulk  seeming 
to  fill  the  room,  and  walking  over  to  Apple- 
gate's  chair  stood  in  front  of  it  looking  down 
at  him.  His  scrutiny  was  long.  Once  Ap 
plegate  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes,  but  he 
was  too  tired  to  bear  their  fierce  light  and 
dropped  his  own  lids  wearily. 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY  65 

MacDonald  turned  from  him  contemptu 
ously  and  faced  his  wife,  who  averted  her 
head. 

"  Look  at  me,  Julie  !  "  he  cried,  appeal- 
ingly.  "  I  am  better  worth  it  than  he  is. 
Good  Lord  !  I  don't  see  what  you  see  in  him. 
He's  so  tame  !  Let  him  go  about  his  busi 
ness.  He's  nobody.  He  don't  want  you. 
Come  along  with  me  and  we'll  lead  a  life  ! 
You  shall  cut  a  dash  out  there.  I  can  make 
money  hand  over  fist.  It's  the  place  for 
you.  Come  on  !  " 

For  a  moment  Julie's  eyes  glittered.  The 
words  allured  her,  but  her  old  gods  prevailed. 
She  threw  out  her  arms  as  if  to  ward  off  his 
proposal. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  shrilly.  "  I  cannot 
make  it  seem  right.  You  were  dead  to  me, 
and  I  married  him.  One  does  not  go  back 
to  the  dead.  If  I  am  your  wife,  what  am 
I  to  him  ?  It  puts  me  in  the  wrong  these 
t\vo  years.  I  cannot  have  it  so,  I  tell  you. 
I  cannot  have  it  so  !  " 

Applegate  felt  faint  and  sick.  Rising,  he 
groped  for  the  door.  "  I  must  have  air,"  he 
said  to  Hopson,  confusedly.  "  I  will  come 
back  in  a  minute." 

Once  outside,  the  cool  November  night 
5 


66  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

refreshed  him.  He  dropped  down  upon  the 
doorstep  and  threw  back  his  head,  drinking 
in  long  breaths  as  he  looked  up  at  the  mock 
ing  stars. 

When  he  found  at  last  the  courage  to  ask 
himself  what  he  was  going  to  do,  the  an 
swer  was  not  ready.  The  decision  lay  en 
tirely  in  his  hands.  He  might  still  be  free 
if  he  said  the  word  :  and  as  he  thought  of 
this  he  trembled.  He  had  always  tried  to  be 
what  his  neighbors  called  a  straight  man,  and 
he  wanted  to  be  straight  in  this  also.  But 
where,  in  such  a  hideous  tangle,  was  the  real 
morality  to  be  found?  Surely  not  in  acced 
ing  to  Julie's  demands  !  What  claim  had  she 
upon  the  home  whose  simple  traditions  of 
peace  and  happiness  she  had  trampled  rudely 
under  foot?  Was  it  not  a  poor,  cheap  con 
vention  of  righteousness  which  demanded  he 
should  take  such  a  woman  back  to  embitter 
the  rest  of  his  days  and  warp  his  children's 
lives  ?  He  rebelled  hotly  at  the  thought. 
That  it  was  Julie's  view  of  the  ethical  re 
quirement  of  her  position  made  it  all  the 
more  improbable  that  it  was  really  right. 
Surely  his  duty  was  to  his  children  first,  and 
as  for  Julie,  let  her  reap  the  reward  of  her 
own  temperament.  The  Lord  God  Himself 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY     67 

could  not  say  that  this  was  unjust,  for  it  is 
so  that  He  deals  with  the  souls  of  men. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  decided, 
but  as  he  rose  and  turned  to  the  door 
a  new  thought  stabbed  him  so  sharply 
that  he  dropped  his  lifted  hand  with  a 
groan. 

Where  had  been  that  sense  of  duty  to  his 
children,  just  now  so  imperative,  in  the  days 
when  he  had  yielded  to  Julie's  charm  against 
his  better  judgment  ?  Had  duty  ever  pre 
vailed  against  inclination  with  him  ?  Was  it 
prevailing  now  ? 

High  over  all  the  turmoil  and  desperation 
of  his  thoughts  shone  out  a  fresh  perception 
that  mocked  him  as  the  winter  stars  had 
mocked.  For  that  hour  at  least,  the  crucial 
one  of  his  decision,  he  felt  assured  that  in 
the  relation  of  man  and  woman  to  each  other 
lies  the  supreme  ethical  test  of  each,  and  in 
that  relation  there  is  no  room  for  selfishness. 
It  might  be,  indeed,  that  he  owed  Julie  noth 
ing,  but  might  it  not  also  be  that  the  con 
sideration  he  owed  all  womankind  could  only 
be  paid  through  this  woman  he  had  called 
his  wife  ?  This  was  an  ideal  with  which  he 
had  never  had  to  reckon. 

He  turned  and  sat  him  down  again  to  fight 


68  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

the  fight  with  a  chill  suspicion  in  his  heart 
of  what  the  end  would  be. 

Being  a  plain  man  he  had  only  plain  words 
in  which  to  phrase  his  decision  when  at  last 
he  came  to  it. 

"I  chose  her  and  I'll  bear  the  conse 
quences  of  my  choice,"  he  said,  "  but  I'll 
bear  them  by  myself.  His  aunt  will  be  glad 
to  take  Teddy,  and  Dora  is  old  enough  to 
go  away  to  school."  Then  he  opened  the 
door. 

Hopson  and  his  wife  had  left  the  little  par 
lor.  Julie  on  the  sofa  had  fallen  into  the 
deep  sleep  of  exhaustion.  MacDonald  still 
sat  there,  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  to 
him  Applegate  turned.  At  the  sound  of  his 
step  the  man  lifted  his  massive  head  and 
shook  it  impatiently. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  The  fact  is,  Mr.  MacDonald,  Julie  and 
I  don't  get  along  very  well  together,  but  I 
don't  know  as  that  is  any  reason  why  I  should 
force  her  to  do  anything  that  don't  seem 
right  to  her.  She  thinks  it  would  be  more'  '- 
he  hesitated  for  a  word — "  more  nearly  right 
to  get  a  divorce  from  you  and  remarry  me. 
As  I  see  it  now,  it's  for  her  to  say  what  she 
wants,  and  for  you  and  me  to  do  it." 


AN  INSTANCE  OF  CHIVALRY     69 

MacDonald  looked  at  him  piercingly. 

"  You  know  you'd  be  glad  of  the  chance 
to  get  rid  of  her  !  "  he  exclaimed,  excitedly. 
"In  Heaven's  name,  then,  why  don't  you 
make  her  come  to  me  ?  You  know  I  suit  her 
best.  You  know  she's  my  sort,  not  yours. 
She's  as  uncomfortable  with  you  as  you  with 
her,  and  she'd  soon  get  over  the  feeling  she 
has  against  me.  Man  !  There's  no  use  in 
it !  Why  can't  you  give  my  own  to  me?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said 
Applegate,  and  the  words  seem  to  ooze  pain 
fully  from  his  white  lips,  "but  she  thinks 
she'd  rather  not,  and — it's  for  her  to  say." 


A   CONSUMING   FIRE 


A   CONSUMING   FIRE 

HE  is  a  man  who  has  failed  in  this  life, 
and  says  he  has  no  chance  of  success  in  an 
other  ;  but  out  of  the  fragments  of  his  fail 
ures  he  has  pieced  together  for  himself  a 
fabric  of  existence  more  satisfying  than  most 
of  us  make  of  our  successes.  It  is  a  kind  of 
triumph  to  look  as  he  does,  to  have  his  man 
ner,  and  to  preserve  his  attitude  toward  ad 
vancing  years — those  dreaded  years  which  he 
faces  with  pale  but  smiling  lips. 

If  you  would  see  my  friend  Hayden,  com 
monly  called  by  his  friends  the  connoisseur, 
figure  to  yourself  a  tall  gentleman  of  sixty- 
five,  very  erect  still  and  graceful,  gray- 
headed  and  gray-bearded,  with  fine  gray 
eyes  that  have  the  storm -tossed  look  of 
clouds  on  a  windy  March  day,  and  a  bear 
ing  that  somehow  impresses  you  with  an 
idea  of  the  gracious  and  pathetic  dignity  of 
his  lonely  age. 

I  myself  am  a  quiet  young  man,  with  but 


74  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

one  gift — I  am  a  finished  and  artistic  listener. 
It  is  this  talent  of  mine  which  wins  for  me  a 
degree  of  Hayden's  esteem  and  a  place  at  his 
table  when  he  has  a  new  story  to  tell.  His 
connoisseurship  extends  to  everything  of 
human  interest,  and  his  stories  are  often  of 
the  best. 

The  last  time  that  I  had  the  honor  of  din 
ing  with  him,  there  was  present,  besides  the 
host  and  myself,  only  his  close  friend,  that 
vigorous  and  successful  man,  Dr.  Richard 
Langworthy,  the  eminent  alienist  and  spe 
cialist  in  nervous  diseases.  The  connoisseur 
evidently  had  something  to  relate,  but  he  re 
fused  to  give  it  to  us  until  the  pretty  dinner 
was  over.  Hayden's  dinners  are  always 
pretty,  and  he  has  ideals  in  the  matter  of 
china,  glass,  and  napery  which  it  would  re 
quire  a  woman  to  appreciate.  It  is  one  of 
his  accomplishments  that  he  manages  to  live 
like  a  gentleman  and  entertain  his  friends  on 
an  income  which  most  people  find  quite  in 
adequate  for  the  purpose. 

After  dinner  we  took  coffee  and  cigars  in 
the  library. 

On  the  table,  full  in  the  mellow  light  of 
the  great  lamp  (Hayden  has  a  distaste  for 
gas),  was  a  bit  of  white  plush  on  which  two 


A  CONSUMING  FIRE  75 

large  opals  were  lying.  One  was  an  in 
tensely  brilliant  globe  of  broken  gleaming 
lights,  in  which  the  red  flame  burned  strong 
est  and  most  steadily ;  the  other  was  as 
large,  but  paler.  You  would  have  said  that 
the  prisoned  heart  of  fire  within  it  had 
ceased  to  throb  against  the  outer  rim  of  ice. 
Langworthy,  who  is  wise  in  gems,  bent  over 
them  with  an  exclamation  of  delight. 

"  Fine  stones,"  he  said ;  "  where  did  you 
pick  them  up,  Hayclen?  " 

Hayden,  standing  with  one  hand  on  Lang- 
worthy's  shoulder,  smiled  down  on  the  opals 
with  a  singular  expression.  It  was  as  if  he 
looked  into  beloved  eyes  for  an  answering 
smile. 

"  They  came  into  my  possession  in  a  sin 
gular  way,  very  singular.  It  interested  me 
immensely,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it, 
and  ask  your  advice  on  something  con 
nected  with  it.  I  am  afraid  you  people  will 
hardly  care  for  the  story  as  much  as  I  do. 
It's — it's  a  little  too  rococo  and  sublimated 
to  please  you,  Langworthy.  But  here  it  is : 

"  When  I  was  in  the  West  last  summer,  I 
spent  some  time  in  a  city  on  the  Pacific 
slope  which  has  more  pawnbrokers'  shops 
and  that  sort  of  thing  in  full  sight  on  the 


76  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

prominent  streets  than  any  other  town  of  the 
same  size  and  respectability  that  I  have  ever 
seen.  One  day,  when  I  had  been  looking 
in  the  bazaars  for  something  a  little  out  of 
the  regular  line  in  Chinese  curios  and  didn't 
find  it,  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  such  a  cos 
mopolitan  town  there  might  possibly  be  some 
interesting  things  in  the  pawn-shops,  so  I 
went  into  one  to  look.  It  was  a  common, 
dingy  place,  kept  by  a  common,  dingy  man 
with  shrewd  eyes  and  a  coarse  mouth.  Talk 
ing  to  him  across  the  counter  was  a  man  of 
another  type.  Distinction  in  good  clothes, 
you  know,  one  is  never  sure  of.  It  may  be 
only  that  a  man's  tailor  is  distinguished. 
But  distinction  in  indifferent  garments  is  dis 
tinction  indeed,  and  there  before  me  I  saw 
it.  A  young,  slight,  carelessly  dressed  man, 
his  bearing  was  attractive  and  noteworthy 
beyond  anything  I  can  express.  His  appear 
ance  was  perhaps  a  little  too  unusual,  for  the 
contrast  between  his  soft,  straw-colored  hair 
and  wine  -  brown  eyes  was  such  a  striking 
one  that  it  attracted  attention  from  the  real 
beauty  of  his  face.  The  delicacy  of  a  cameo 
is  rough,"  added  the  connoisseur,  parentheti 
cally,  "  compared  to  the  delicacy  of  outline 
and  feature  in  a  face  that  thought,  and  per- 


A  CONSUMING  FIRE  77 

haps  suffering,  have  worn  away,  but  this  is 
one  of  the  distinctive  attractions  of  the  old. 
You  do  not  look  for  it  in  young  faces  such 
as  this. 

"  On  the  desk  between  the  two  men  lay  a 
fine  opal — this  one,"  said  Hayden,  touching 
the  more  brilliant  of  the  two  stones.  "  The 
younger  man  was  talking  eagerly,  fingering 
the  gem  lightly  as  he  spoke.  I  inferred  that 
he  was  offering  to  sell  or  pawn  it. 

"The  proprietor,  seeing  that  I  waited, 
apparently  cut  the  young  man  short.  He 
started,  and  caught  up  the  stone.  '  I'll  give 
you — '  I  heard  the  other  say,  but  the  young 
man  shook  his  head,  and  departed  abruptly. 
I  found  nothing  that  I  wanted  in  the  place, 
and  soon  passed  out. 

"  In  front  of  a  shop-window  a  little  farther 
down  the  street  stood  the  other  man,  look 
ing  in  listlessly  with  eyes  that  evidently  saw 
nothing.  As  I  came  by  he  turned  and  looked 
into  my  face.  His  eyes  fixed  me  as  the 
Ancient  Mariner's  did  the  Wedding  Guest. 
It  was  an  appealing  yet  commanding  look, 
and  I — I  felt  constrained  to  stop.  I  couldn't 
help  it,  you  know.  Even  at  my  age  one  is 
not  beyond  feeling  the  force  of  an  imperious 
attraction,  and  when  you  are  past  sixty  you 


78  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

ought  to  be  thankful  on  your  knees  for  any 
emotion  that  is  imperative  in  its  nature.  So 
I  stopped  beside  him.  I  said  :  '  It  is  a  fine 
stone  you  were  showing  that  man.  I  have  a 
great  fondness  for  opals.  May  I  ask  if  you 
were  offering  it  for  sale  ?  ' 

"  He  continued  to  look  at  me,  inspecting 
me  calmly,  with  a  fastidious  expression. 
Upon  my  word,  I  felt  singularly  honored 
when,  at  the  end  of  a  minute  or  two,  he 
said  :  '  I  should  like  to  show  it  to  you.  If 
you  will  come  to  my  room  with  me,  you  may 
see  that,  and  another;'  and  he  turned  and 
led  the  way,  I  following  quite  humbly  and 
gladly,  though  surprised  at  myself. 

"The  room,  somewhat  to  my  astonish 
ment,  proved  to  be  a  large  apartment — a  front 
room  high  up  in  one  of  the  best  hotels. 
There  were  a  good  many  things  lying  about 
which  obviously  were  not  hotel  furnishings, 
and  the  walls,  the  bed,  and  even  the  floor 
were  covered  with  a  litter  of  water-color 
sketches.  Those  that  I  could  see  were  ad 
mirable,  being  chiefly  impressions  of  delicate 
and  fleeting  atmospheric  effects. 

"  I  took  the  chair  he  offered.  He  stood, 
still  looking  at  me,  apparently  not  in  haste  to 
show  me  the  opals.  I  looked  about  the  room. 


A  CONSUMING  FIRE  79 

"  '  You  are  an  artist?  '  I  said. 

"  '  Oh,  I  used  to  be,  when  I  was  alive/  he 
answered,  drearily.  'I  am  nothing  now.' 
And  then  turning  away  he  fetched  a  little 
leather  case,  and  placed  the  two  opals  on  the 
table  before  me. 

"  'This  is  the  one  I  have  always  worn,' 
he  said,  indicating  the  more  brilliant.  '  That 
chillier  one  I  gave  once  to  the  woman  whom 
I  loved.  It  was  more  vivid  then.  They 
are  strange  stones — strange  stones. ' 

"  He  said  nothing  more,  and  I  sat  in  per 
fect  silence,  only  dreading  that  he  should 
not  speak  again.  I  am  not  making  you  un 
derstand  how  he  impressed  me.  In  the 
delicate,  hopeless  patience  of  his  face,  in  the 
refined,  uninsistent  accents  of  his  voice,  there 
was  somehow  struck  a  note  of  self-abnega 
tion,  of  aloofness  from  the  world,  pathetic 
in  any  one  so  young. 

"  I  am  old.  There  is  little  in  life  that  I 
care  for.  My  interests  are  largely  affected. 
Wine  does  not  warm  me  now,  and  beauty 
seems  no  longer  beautiful ;  but  I  thank 
Heaven  I  am  not  beyond  the  reach  of  a 
penetrating  human  personality.  I  have  at 
least  the  ordinary  instincts  for  convention  in 
social  matters,  but  I  assure  you  it  seemed 


8o  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

not  in  the  least  strange  to  me  that  I  should 
be  sitting  in  the  private  apartment  of  a  man 
whom  I  had  met  only  half  an  hour  before, 
and  then  in  a  pawnbroker's  shop,  listening 
eagerly  for  his  account  of  matters  wholly 
personal  to  himself.  It  struck  me  as  the 
most  natural  and  charming  thing  in  the 
world.  It  was  just  such  chance  passing  in 
tercourse  as  I  expect  to  hold  with  wandering 
spirits  on  the  green  hills  of  paradise. 

"  It  was  some  time  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  '  I  saw  her  first,'  he  said,  looking  at  the 
paler  opal,  as  if  it  was  of  that  he  spoke,  '  on 
the  street  in  Florence.  It  was  a  day  in  April, 
and  the  air  was  liquid  gold.  She  was  look 
ing  at  the  Campanile,  as  if  she  were  akin  to 
it.  It  was  the  friendly  grace  of  one  lily 
looking  at  another.  Later,  I  met  her  as  one 
meets  other  people,  and  was  presented  to 
her.  And  after  that  the  days  went  fast.  I 
think  she  was  the  sweetest  woman  God  ever 
made.  I  sometimes  wonder  how  He  came  to 
think  of  her.  Whatever  you  may  have 
missed  in  life,'  he  said,  lifting  calm  eyes  to 
mine,  and  smiling  a  little,  '  you  whose  aspect 
is  so  sweet,  decorous,  and  depressing,  whose 
griefs,  if  you  have  griefs,  are  the  subtle  sor 
rows  of  the  old  and  unimpassioned  ' — I  re- 


A  CONSUMING  FIRE  81 

member  his  phrases  literally.  I  thought  them 
striking  and  descriptive,"  confessed  Hayden 
—  "  '  1  hope  you  have  not  missed  that  last 
touch  of  exaltation  which  I  knew  then. 
It  is  the  most  exquisite  thing  in  life.  The 
Fates  must  hate  those  from  whose  lips  they 
keep  that  cup.'  He  mused  awhile  and 
added,  '  There  is  only  one  real  want  in  life, 
and  that  is  comradeship — comradeship  with 
the  divine,  and  that  we  call  religion ;  with 
the  human,  and  that  we  call  love.1 

"  '  Your  definitions  are  literature,'  I  vent 
ured  to  suggest,  '  but  they  are  not  fact.  Be 
lieve  me,  neither  love  nor  religion  is  exactly 
what  you  call  it.  And  there  are  other  things 
almost  as  good  in  life,  as  surely  you  must 
know.  There  is  art,  and  there  is  work  which 
is  work  only,  and  yet  is  good.' 

"  '  You  speak  from  your  own  experience  ? ' 
he  said,  simply. 

"  It  was  a  home  thrust.  I  did  not,  and  I 
knew  I  did  not.  I  am  sixty-five  years  old, 
and  I  have  never  known  just  that  complete 
satisfaction  which  I  believe  arises  from  the 
perfect  performance  of  distasteful  work.  I 
said  so.  He  smiled. 

"  '  I  knew  it  when  I  set  my  eyes  upon  you, 
and  I  knew  you  would  listen  to  me  and  my 
6 


82  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

vaporing.  Your  sympathy  with  me  is  what 
you  feel  toward  all  forms  of  weakness,  and  in 
the  last  analysis  it  is  self-sympathy.  You 
are  beautiful,  not  strong,'  he  added,  with  an 
air  of  finality,  '  and  I — I  am  like  you.  If  I 
had  been  a  strong  man  ....  Christ !' 

"  I  enjoyed  this  singular  analysis  of  my 
self,  but  I  wanted  something  else. 

"  'You  were  telling  me  of  the  opals,'  I 
suggested. 

"'The  opals,  yes.  Opals  always  made 
me  happy,  you  know.  While  I  wore  one,  I 
felt  a  friend  was  near.  My  father  found 
these  in  Hungary,  and  sent  them  to  me — two 
perfect  jewels.  He  said  they  were  the  twin 
halves  of  a  single  stone.  I  believe  it  to  be 
true.  Their  mutual  relation  is  an  odd  one. 
One  has  paled  as  the  other  brightened.  You 
see  them  now.  When  they  were  both  mine, 
they  were  of  almost  equal  brilliancy.  This,' 
touching  the  paler,  '  is  the  one  I  gave  to  her. 
You  see  the  difference  in  them  now.  Hers 
began  to  pale  before  she  had  worn  it  a  month. 
I  do  not  try  to  explain  it,  not  even  on  the 
ground  of  the  old  superstition.  It  was  not 
her  fault  that  they  made  her  send  it  back  to 
me.  But  the  fact  remains ;  her  opal  is  fad 
ing  slowly ;  mine  is  burning  to  a  deeper  red. 


A  CONSUMING  FIRE  83 

Some  day  hers  will  be  frozen  quite,  while 
mine — mine — '  his  voice  wavered  and  fell 
on  silence,  as  the  flame  of  a  candle  fighting 
against  the  wind  flickers  and  goes  out. 

"  I  waited  many  minutes  for  him  to  speak 
again,  but  the  silence  was  unbroken.  At  last 
I  rose.  '  Surely  you  did  not  mean  to  part 
with  either  stone  ? '  I  said. 

"  He  looked  up  as  if  from  a  dream.  '  Part 
with  them  ?  Why  should  I  sell  my  soul  ?  I 
would  not  part  with  them  if  I  were  starving. 
I  had  a  minute's  temptation,  but  that  is  past 
now.'  Then,  with  a  change  of  manner,  '  You 
are  going  ? '  He  rose  with  a  gesture  that 
I  felt  then  and  still  feel  as  a  benediction. 
'  Good-by.  I  wish  for  your  own  sake  that 
you  had  not  been  so  like  my  poor  self  that  I 
knew  you  for  a  friend.' 

"  We  had  exchanged  cards,  but  I  did  not 
see  or  hear  of  him  again.  Last  week  these 
stones  came  to  me,  sent  by  some  one  here  in 
New  York  of  his  own  name — his  executor. 
He  is  dead,  and  left  me  these. 

"It  is  here  that  I  want  your  counsel. 
These  stones  do  not  belong  to  me,  you  know. 
It  is  true  that  we  are  like,  as  like  as  blue  and 
violet.  But  there  is  that  woman  somewhere — 
I  don't  know  where  ;  and  I  know  no  more  of 


84  A  BOOK   OF  MARTYRS 

their  story  than  he  told  me.  I  have  not 
cared  to  be  curious  regarding  it  or  him.  But 
they  loved  once,  and  these  belong  to  her. 
Do  you  suppose  they  would  be  a  comfort  or 
a  curse  to  her?  If — if — "  the  connoisseur 
evidently  found  difficulty  in  stating  his  po 
sition.  "  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
I  believe  one  of  the  stones  waned  while  the 
other  grew  more  brilliant.  I  simply  say  noth 
ing  of  it ;  but  I  know  that  he  believed  it,  and 
I,  even  I,  feel  a  superstition  about  it.  I  do 
not  want  the  light  in  that  stone  to  go  out ; 
or  if  it  should,  or  could,  I  do  not  want  to 
see  it.  And,  besides,  if  I  were  a  woman,  and 
that  man  had  loved  me  so,  I  should  wish 
those  opals."  Here  Hayden  looked  up  and 
caught  Langworthy's  amused,  tolerant  smile. 
He  stopped,  and  there  was  almost  a  flush 
upon  his  cheek. 

' '  You  think  I  am  maudlin — doting — I  see, ' ' 
he  said.  "  Langworthy,  I  do  hope  the  Lord 
will  kindly  let  you  die  in  the  harness.  You 
haven't  any  taste  for  these  innocent,  green 
pastures  where  we  old  fellows  must  disport 
ourselves,  if  we  disport  at  all.  Now,  I  want 
to  know  if  it  would  be — er — indelicate  to 
attempt  to  find  out  who  she  is,  and  to  restore 
the  stones  to  her  ? ' ' 


A  CONSUMING  FIRE  85 

Langworthy,  who  had  preserved  through 
out  his  usual  air  of  strict  scientific  attention, 
jumped  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room. 

"  His  name?  "  he  said. 

Hayden  gave  it. 

"  I  know  the  man,"  said  Langworthy,  al 
most  reluctantly.  "  Did  any  one  who  ever 
saw  him  forget  him  ?  He  was  on  the  verge 
of  melancholia,  but  what  a  mind  he  had  !  " 

"  How  did  you  know  him,  Langworthy  !" 
asked  Hayden,  with  pathetic  eagerness. 

"As  a  patient.  It's  a  sad  story.  You 
won't  like  it.  You  had  better  keep  your 
fancies  without  the  addition  of  any  of  the 
facts." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Hayden,  briefly. 

"  They  live  here,  you  know.  He  was  the 
only  son.  He  unconsciously  acquired  the 
morphine  habit  from  taking  quantities  of  the 
stuff  for  neuralgic  symptoms  during  a  severe 
protracted  illness.  After  he  got  better,  and 
found  what  had  happened  to  him,  he  came 
to  me.  I  had  to  tell  him  he  would  die  if  he 
didn't  break  it  off,  and  would  probably  die 
if  he  did.  '  Oh,  no  matter, '  he  said.  '  What 
disgusts  me  is  the  idea  that  it  has  taken  such 
hold  of  me.'  He  did  break  it  off  directly 
and  absolutely.  I  never  knew  but  one  other 


86  A   BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

man  who  did  that  thing.  But  between  the 
pain  and  the  shock  from  the  sudden  cessation 
of  the  drug,  his  mind  was  unbalanced  for 
awhile.  Of  course  the  girl's  parents  broke 
off  the  engagement.  I  knew  they  were 
travelling  with  him  last  summer.  It  was  a 
trying  case,  and  the  way  he  accepted  his 
own  weakness  touched  me.  At  his  own  re 
quest  he  carried  no  money  with  him.  It 
was  a  temptation  when  he  wanted  the  drug, 
you  see.  It  must  have  been  at  some  such 
moment,  when  he  contemplated  giving  up 
the  struggle,  that  you  met  him  in  the  pawn 
shop." 

"I  am  glad  I  knew  enough  to  respect 
him  even  there,"  murmured  Hayden,  in  his 
beard. 

"  Oh,  you  may  respect  him,  and  love  him 
if  you  like.  He  died  a  moral  hero,  if  a  men 
tal  and  physical  wreck.  That  is  as  good  a 
way  as  any,  or  ought  to  be,  to  enter  another 
life — if  there  is  another  life." 

"  And  the  woman  ?"  asked  the  connois 
seur. 

' '  Keep  the  opals,  Hayden ;  they  and  he 
are  more  to  you  than  to  her.  She — in  fact  it 
is  very  soon — is  to  marry  another  man." 

"Who  is—" 


A  CONSUMING   FIRE  87 

' '  A  gilded  cad.     That's  all. " 

Langworthy  took  out  his  watch  and  looked 
at  it.  I  turned  to  the  table.  What  had 
happened  to  the  dreaming  stones?  Did  a 
light  flash  across  from  one  to  the  other,  or 
did  my  eyes  deceive  me  ?  I  looked  down, 
not  trusting  what  I  saw.  One  opal  lay  as 
pale,  as  pure,  as  lifeless,  as  a  moon-stone  is. 
The  other  glowed  with  a  yet  fierier  spark ; 
instead  of  coming  from  within,  the  color 
seemed  to  play  over  its  surface  in  unrestrict 
ed  flame. 

"  See  here!  "  I  said. 

Langworthy  looked,  then  turned  his  head 
away  sharply.  The  distaste  of  the  scientific 
man  for  the  inexplicable  and  irrational  was 
very  strong  within  him. 

But  the  old  man  bent  forward,  the  lamp 
light  shining  on  his  white  hair,  and  with  a 
womanish  gesture  caught  the  gleaming  opal 
to  his  lips. 

"  A  human  soul !  "  he  said.  "  A  human 
soul !  ' ' 


AN   UNEARNED  REWARD 


AN   UNEARNED   REWARD 

IT  is  the  very  last  corner  of  the  world  in 
which  you  would  expect  to  find  a  sermon. 
Overhead  hang  the  Colorado  skies,  curtains 
of  deepest,  dullest  cobalt,  against  which  the 
unthreatening  white  clouds  stand  out  with 
a  certain  solidity,  a  tangible  look  seen  no 
where  else  save  in  that  clear  air.  All  around 
are  the  great  upland  swells  of  the  mountains, 
rising  endlessly,  ridge  beyond  ridge,  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea.  In  a  hollow  beside  the 
glittering  track  is  the  one  sign  of  human  ex 
istence  in  sight — the  sun-scorched,  brown 
railway  station.  It  is  an  insignificant  struct 
ure  planted  on  a  high  platform.  There  is  a 
red  tool-chest  standing  against  the  wall ;  a 
tin  advertisement  of  somebody's  yeast-cakes 
is  nailed  to  the  clap-boards ;  three  buffalo 
hides,  with  horns  still  on  them,  hang  over 
a  beam  by  the  coal-shed,  and  across  the  side 
of  the  platform,  visible  only  to  those  ap- 


92  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

preaching  from  the  west,  is  written,  in  great, 
black  letters  : 

THE  WAGES  OF  SIN  IS  DEATH. 

This  legend  had  no  place  there  on  the 
September  afternoon,  some  years  ago,  when 
Carroll  Forbes  stepped  off  the  west  -  bound 
express  as  it  halted  a  minute  at  the  desolate 
spot.  Because  it  looked  to  him  like  the 
loneliest  place  in  all  the  world  the  notion 
seized  him  suddenly,  as  the  train  drew  up 
beside  the  high  platform,  to  catch  up  his 
valise  and  leave  the  car.  He  was  looking 
for  a  lonely  place,  and  looking  helplessly. 
He  snatched  at  the  idea  that  here  might  be 
what  he  sought,  as  a  drowning  man  at  the 
proverbial  straw. 

When  the  train  had  gone  on  and  left  him 
there,  already  repenting  tremulously  of  what 
might  prove  his  disastrous  folly,  a  man,  who 
was  possibly  the  station  agent — if  this  were 
indeed  a  station — came  limping  toward  him 
with  an  inquiring  look. 

Forbes  was  a  handsome  man  himself,  and 
thoroughly  aware  of  the  value  of  beauty 
as  an  endowment.  He  was  conscious  of 
a  half-envious  pang  as  he  faced  the  blonde 


AN   UNEARNED   REWARD  93 

giant  halting  across  the  platform.  This 
was,  or  had  been,  a  singularly  perfect  speci 
men  of  the  physical  man.  Over  six  feet  in 
height,  muscular,  finely  proportioned,  fair- 
haired  and  fair -skinned,  with  a  curling, 
blonde  beard,  and  big,  expressionless  blue 
eyes,  he  looked  as  one  might  who  had  been 
made  when  the  world  was  young,  and  there 
was  more  room  for  mighty  men  than  now. 

The  slight,  olive-skinned  young  man  who 
faced  him  was  conscious  of  the  sudden  feel 
ing  of  physical  disadvantage  that  comes 
upon  one  in  the  presence  of  imposing  natu 
ral  objects,  for  the  man  was  as  august  in  his 
way  as  the  cliffs  and  canyons. 

"  I  am  a — an  artist,"  said  Carroll  Forbes. 
' '  Is  there  any  place  hereabouts  where  I  can 
get  my  meals  and  sometimes  a  bed,  while  I 
am  sketching  in  the  mountains?" 

The  man  stared  at  him. 

"Would  it  have  been  better  if  I  had 
said  I  was  a  surveyor  ?  ' '  asked  Forbes  of 
his  confused  inner  consciousness. 

"  We  feed  folks  here  sometimes — that  is, 
my  wife  does.  Mebbe  you  could  have  a 
shake-down  in  the  loft.  Or  there's  Connor's 
ranch  off  north  a  ways.  But  they  don't 
care  about  taking  in  folks  up  there." 


94  A   BOOK   OF  MARTYRS 

"Then,  if  you  would  ask  your  wife?" 
ventured  Forbes,  politely.  "  I  shall  not 
trouble  you  long,"  he  added. 

"Ellen  !  " 

A  woman  appeared  at  the  door,  then  mov 
ing  slowly  forward,  stood  at  her  husband's 
side,  and  the  admiration  Forbes  had  felt  at 
the  sight  of  the  man  flamed  into  sudden  en 
thusiasm  as  he  watched  the  wife.  She  was 
tall,  with  heavy,  black  hair,  great  eyes  like 
unpolished  jet,  one  of  the  thick  white, 
smooth,  perfectly  colorless  skins,  which 
neither  the  sun  nor  the  wind  affect,  and 
clear-cut,  perfect  features.  Standing  so, 
side  by  side,  the  two  were  singularly  well 
worth  looking  at. 

"  What  a  regal  pair  !  "  was  Forbes's  inter 
nal  comment ;  and  while  they  conferred  to 
gether  he  watched  them  idly,  wondering 
what  their  history  was,  for  of  course  they 
had  one.  It  is  safe  to  affirm  that  every  hu 
man  creature  cast  in  the  mould  of  the  beau 
tiful  has,  or  is  to  have,  one. 

"  She  says  you  c'n  stay,"  announced  the 
man.  "  Just  put  those  traps  of  yours  inside, 
will  you?  "  and,  turning,  he  limped  off  the 
length  of  the  platform  at  a  call  from  some 
body  who  had  ridden  up  with  jingling  spurs. 


AN   UNEARNED  REWARD  95 

Forbes,  left  to  his  own  devices,  picked 
up  his  valise,  then  set  it  down  again  and 
looked  around  him  helplessly,  wondering 
if  there  was  a  night  train  by  which  he 
could  get  away  from  this  heaven-forsaken 
spot. 

"If  you  want  to  see  where  you  can 
sleep,"  said  a  voice  at  his  side,  "  I  will  show 
you."  It  was  the  woman.  She  bent  as  she 
spoke  to  pick  up  some  of  his  impedimenta, 
but  he  hastily  forestalled  her  with  a  murmur 
of  deprecation. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  as  he 
met  her  eyes  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  in 
difference  of  her  face  was  the  indifference  of 
the  desert — arid  and  hopeless.  The  look 
she  gave  him  was  searching  and  impersonal ; 
he  saw  no  reason  for  it,  nor  for  the  slow, 
dark  color  that  spread  over  her  face,  and 
there  was  less  than  no  excuse  for  the  way  she 
set  her  lips  and  stretched  a  peremptory  hand, 
saying,  "Give  me  those,"  in  tones  that 
could  not  be  disobeyed.  To  his  own  aston 
ishment  he  surrendered  them,  and  followed 
her  meekly  up  a  ladder-like  flight  of  steps  to 
the  rough  loft  over  the  station.  It  was  un 
finished,  but  partitioned  into  two  rooms. 
She  opened  the  door  of  one  of  these  apart- 


96  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

ments,  silently  set  his  luggage  inside,  and 
vanished  down  the  stairs. 

Forbes  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  broken 
chair  and  looked  about  him. 

"Now,  in  heaven's  name,"  he  demanded 
of  the  barren  walls,  "  what  have  I  let  my 
self  in  for,  and  why  did  I  do  it?  " 

To  this  question  there  seemed  no  sufficient 
answer,  and  for  awhile  he  sat  there  fretting 
with  the  futile  anxiety  of  a  man  who  knows 
that  his  fate  pursues  him,  who  hopes  that 
this  turning  or  that  may  help  him  to  evade 
it,  yet  always  feels  the  benumbing  certainty 
that  the  path  he  has  taken  is  the  shortest 
road  to  that  he  would  avoid.  When  at  last — 
recognizing  that  his  meditations  were  un 
profitable — he  rose  and  went  down  the 
stairs,  it  was  supper-time. 

The  woman  was  uncommunicative,  but  he 
could  feel  that  her  eyes  were  on  him.  The 
man — it  occurred  to  Forbes  that  he  had 
probably  been  drinking  —  was  talkative. 
After  the  meal  was  over  they  went  out 
side.  Forbes,  by  way  of  supporting  his  pre 
tence  of  being  an  artist,  took  out  a  pocket 
sketch-book  and  made  notes  of  the  values  of 
the  clouds  and  the  outlines  of  the  hills 
against  the  sky  in  a  sort  of  artistic  short- 


AN  UNEARNED  REWARD  97 

hand.  The  man  Wilson  sat  down  on  a 
bench  and  began  to  talk.  Between  the  ex 
citing  effects  of  the  whiskey  he  had  taken, 
the  soothing  influence  of  the  cigar  Forbes 
proffered  him,  and  a  natural  talent  for  com 
municativeness,  he  presently  went  on  to  tell 
his  own  story.  Forbes  listened  attentively. 
It  seemed  a  part  of  the  melodrama  of  the 
whole  situation  and  was  as  unreal  to  him  as 
the  flaming  miracle  of  the  western  skies  or 
his  own  presence  here. 

"  So  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  we  just 
skipped  out.  She  ran  away  with  me." 

It  was  a  curious  story.  As  Forbes  listened 
he  became  aware  that  it  was  one  with  which 
he  had  occasionally  met  in  the  newspapers, 
but  never  in  real  life  before.  It  was,  ap 
parently,  the  story  of  a  girl  belonging  to  a 
family  of  wealth  and  possibly  of  high  social 
traditions — naturally  he  did  not  know  what 
importance  to  attach  to  Wilson's  boast  that 
his  wife  belonged  "  to  the  top  of  the  heap  " 
— who  had  eloped  with  the  man  who  drove 
her  father's  carriage. 

The  reasons  for   this    revolt  against   the 

natural  order  of  her  life  was  obscure ;  there 

was,  perhaps,  too  high  a  temper  on  her  side 

and  too  strict   a  restraint  on  the  part  of  her 

7 


98  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

guardians.  There  was  necessarily  a  total 
absence  of  knowledge  of  life;  there  was  also 
the  fact  that  the  coachman  was  undoubtedly 
a  fine  creature  to  look  at ;  there  might  have 
been  a  momentary  yielding  on  the  part  of  a 
naturally  dramatic  temperament  to  the  im 
pulse  for  the  spectacular  in  her  life. 

But  whatever  the  reasons,  the  result  was 
the  same.  She  had  married  this  man  and 
gone  away  with  him,  and  they  had  drifted 
westward.  And  when  they  had  gone  so  far 
west  that  coachmen  of  his  stamp  were  no 
longer  in  demand,  he  took  to  railroading, 
and  from  brakeman  became  engineer ;  and 
finally,  being  maimed  in  an  accident  in 
which  he  had  stood  by  his  engine  wliile  the 
fireman  jumped — breaking  his  neck  thereby 
— he  had  picked  up  enough  knowledge  of 
telegraphy  to  qualify  him  for  this  post  among 
the  mountains.  He  and  his  handsome  wife 
lived  here  and  shared  the  everlasting  soli 
tude  of  the  spot  together,  and  occasionally 
fed  stray  travellers  like  this  one  who  had 
dropped  down  on  them  to-day. 

"He  drinks  over-freely  and  he  swears 
profusely,"  mused  Forbes,  scrutinizing  him, 
"but  he  is  too  big  to  be  cruel,  and  he  still 
worships  her  beauty  as  she,  perhaps,  once 


AN   UNEARNED  REWARD  99 

worshipped  his;  and  he  still  feels  an  un 
couth  pride  in  all  that  she  gave  up  for  his 
sake." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  before  to 
wonder  what  the  after-life  of  a  girl  who 
eloped  with  her  father's  servant  might  be 
like.  He  speculated  upon  it  now.  By  just 
what  process  does  a  woman  so  utterly  de- 
dassee  adjust  herself  to  her  altered  position? 
Would  she  make  it  a  point  to  forget,  or 
would  every  reminder  of  lives,  such  as  her 
own  had  been,  be  a  turning  of  the  knife  in 
her  wound  ?  Would  not  a  saving  recollec 
tion  of  the  little  refinements  of  life  cling 
longer  to  a  weak  nature  than  to  a  strong 
one  under  such  circumstances  ? 

This  woman  apparently  gave  tongue  to  no 
vain  regrets,  for  her  husband  was  exulting 
in  the  "  grit  "  with  which  she  had  taken  the 
fortunes  of  their  life.  "  No  whine  about 
her,"  was  his  way  of  expressing  his  convic 
tion  that  the  courage  of  the  thoroughbred 
was  in  her. 

"No,  sir;  there's  no  whine  about  her. 
Un  she's  never  been  sorry,  un,  s'help  me, 
she  sha'n't  never  be,"  concluded  Wilson. 
There  were  maudlin  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Few  men  can   say  that  of  their  wives," 


zoo  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

said  Forbes's  smooth,  sympathetic  voice. 
' '  You  are  indeed  fortunate. ' ' 

While  her  husband  was  repeating  the  oft- 
told  tale  of  their  conjugal  happiness,  Ellen 
Wilson  had  done  her  after-supper  work,  and, 
slipping  out  of  the  door,  climbed  the  short, 
rocky  spur  to  the  north  of  the  station.  Be 
yond  the  summit,  completely  out  of  sight 
and  hearing,  there  was  a  little  hollow  that 
knew  her  well,  but  never  had  it  seen  her  as 
it  saw  her  now,  when,  throwing  herself  down, 
her  face  to  the  earth,  she  shed  the  most 
scalding  tears  of  all  her  wretched  years. 

They  were  such  little  things  this  stranger 
had  done — things  so  slight,  so  involuntary, 
so  unconscious  that  they  did  not  deserve  the 
name  of  courtesies,  but  they  were  enough 
to  open  the  flood-gates  of  an  embittered 
heart.  There  was  a  world  where  all  the  men 
were  deferential  and  all  the  women's  lives 
were  wrapped  about  with  the  fine,  small 
courtesies  of  life — formal,  but  not  meaning 
less.  It  had  been  her  world  once  and  now 
was  so  no  longer. 

Good  or  bad,  she  knew  little  and  cared 
less,  this  man  had  come  from  that  lost  world 
of  hers,  as  she  was  made  aware  by  a  thousand 
small  signs,  whose  very  existence  she  had  for- 


AN   UNEARNED   REWARD  101 

gotten  ;  and  silently,  fiercely  she  claimed 
him  as  an  equal. 

"  I — I  too  was —  Slow  tears  drowned 
the  rest. 

She  could  have  told  him  how  a  declassee 
grows  used  to  it.  She  knew  how  the  mind 
can  adjust  itself  to  any  phase  of  experience, 
and  had  learned  that  what  woman  has  un 
dergone,  woman  can  undergo — yes,  and  be 
strong  about  it.  She  knew  how,  under  the 
impulse  of  necessity,  the  once  impossible 
grows  to  be  the  accepted  life,  and  the  food 
that  could  not  be  swallowed  becomes  the 
daily  bread. 

When  the  struggle  for  existence  becomes 
a  hand-to-hand  fight,  traditions  of  one's 
ancestry  do  not  matter,  except,  possibly, 
that  some  traditions  bind  you  to  strength 
and  silence,  while  others  leave  you  free  to 
scream.  She  knew  what  it  was  to  forget 
the  past  and  ignore  the  future,  and  survey 
the  present  with  the  single-hearted  purpose 
of  securing  three  meals  a  day,  if  possible ; 
two,  if  it  were  not. 

She  had  forgotten  with  what  facility  she 
might  the  faces  and  scenes  that  once  were 
dear  to  her.  She  had  nothing  to  do  with 
them  any  longer,  as  she  knew.  She  might, 


102  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

perhaps,  have  heard  their  names  without 
emotion.  But,  even  in  this  day  and  gener 
ation  and  among  this  democratic  people,  in 
the  soul  of  a  woman  bred  as  she  had  been 
the  feeling  for  her  caste  is  the  last  feeling 
that  dies.  And  to  her  anguish  she  found 
that  in  her  it  was  not  yet  dead. 

The  color  died  from  the  sky,  and  the 
stars  came  swiftly  out. 

She  rose f  at  last.  It  was  time  that  she 
should  be  going.  She  stretched  out  the 
tired  arms  upon  which  she  had  been  lying, 
looked  at  the  patient  hands  which  had  long 
lost  the  beauty  her  face  still  kept,  and  lifted 
her  eyes  to  the  solemn  sky. 

"  I  shall  die  someday,"  she  said,  passion 
ately.  "  No  one  can  take  that  away  from 
me.  Thank  Heaven,  it  is  not  one  of  the 
privileges  a  woman  forfeits  by  marrying 
out  of  her  station." 

Forbes  stayed  three  days  longer  ;  restless, 
wretched  days  whenever  he  thought  of  him 
self  and  his  position  ;  sunlit  and  serene 
whenever  his  facile  temperament  permitted 
him  to  forget  them.  He  felt  that  he  should 
be  moving  on,  yet,  having  stopped,  was  at 
a  loss  how  to  proceed.  Staying  or  going 
seemed  equally  difficult  and  dangerous. 


AN   UNEARNED  REWARD  103 

He  had  no  precedents  to  guide  his  action. 
Nothing  in  his  previous  life  and  training  had 
ever  fitted  him  to  be  a  fugitive.  He  was, 
as  he  often  reminded  himself,  not  a  fugitive 
from  justice,  but  from  injustice ;  which  is 
quite  another  matter,  but  after  all  hardly 
more  comfortable.  He  began  to  suspect 
that  he  might  have  been  a  fool  to  come 
away,  but  was  too  dazed  to  decide  intelli 
gently  whether  he  should  go  forward  or 
back.  He  was  still  in  this  undecided  frame 
of  mind  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day. 

Wilson  and  his  wife  performed  by  turns 
the  duties  of  telegraph  operator,  with  the 
difference  that  whereas  she  received  by 
sound,  he  took  the  messages  on  paper.  On 
the  evening  of  the  second  day  of  Forbes's 
stay,  Wilson,  sitting  alone  in  the  office,  re 
ceived  a  message  from  Pueblo  that  startled 
him. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  said,  and  looked 
around  to  see  if  his  wife  was  in  sight.  She 
was  not,  and  on  reflection  he  felt  thankful. 
It  would  be  better  not  to  have  her  know. 
There  were  some  things  women,  even  plucky 
ones,  made  a  fuss  about.  They  were  not 
fond  of  seeing  criminals  taken,  for  instance. 
So  he  answered  the  message,  and  having 


104  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

made  the  requisite  copy  locked  that  in  the 
office  safe.  The  long  strip  of  paper,  with 
its  lines  of  dots  and  dashes,  he  crumpled 
carelessly  and  dropped  into  the  waste- 
basket. 

The  next  afternoon  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  the 
process  of  sweeping  out  the  room,  upset  the 
waste-basket,  and  the  crumpled  piece  of 
paper  fell  out  and  rolled  appeal! ngly  to  her 
feet.  There  were  a  dozen  messages  on  the 
strip,  but  the  last  one  riveted  her  eyes.  She 
read  it,  then  read  it  again ;  returned  it  to 
the  waste-basket  and  sat  down  to  think  with 
folded  hands  in  lap,  her  white  face  as  in 
scrutable  as  the  Sphinx.  What  should  she 
do?  Should  she  do  anything? 

The  man  might  be  a  criminal  or  he  might 
not.  The  fact  that  he  was  followed  by  de 
tectives  with  papers  for  his  arrest,  who  might 
be  expected  to  arrive  on  the  afternoon  train, 
proved  nothing  to  her  mind.  At  the  same 
time,  criminal  or  none,  if  she  interfered  it 
might  prove  a  dangerous  experiment  for  her, 
and  was  sure  to  be  a  troublesome  one.  Why, 
then,  should  she  interfere? 

There  was  only  one  reason,  but  it  was  a 
reason  rooted  in  the  dumb  depths  of  her 
being  —  the  depths  that  this  man's  bearing 


AN    UNEARNED   REWARD  105 

had  so  disturbed.  He  was  of  her  people;  on 
her  side — though  it  was  the  side  that  had  cast 
her  off.  The  faint,  sweet  memories  of  her 
earliest  years  pleaded  for  him  ;  the  enduring 
bitterness  of  that  later  life  which  she  had 
lived  sometimes  forgetfully,  sometimes — but 
this  was  rare  —  prayerfully,  sometimes  with 
long-drawn  sighs,  seldom  with  tears,  always 
in  silence,  fought  for  him ;  the  inextinguish 
able  class-spirit  fought  for  him — and  fought 
successfully. 

She  looked  at  the  clock.  It  lacked  an 
hour  of  train-time.  What  she  did  must  be 
done  quickly. 

She  went  out  to  her  husband,  loafing  on 
the  platform. 

"I've  got  to  go  to  Connor's,  Jim.  There's 
no  butter  and  no  eggs. ' ' 

Wilson  looked  up  carelessly.  ' '  All  right, ' ' 
he  said. 

She  went  into  the  back  room  which  served 
as  kitchen  and  store-room  and  provided  her 
self  with  a  basket,  into  which  she  put  meat 
and  bread.  As  she  left  the  station,  Wilson 
came  around  to  the  side  and  called  to  her : 

"  You'll  be  back  by  supper-time,  Ellen  ?  " 

The  woman  nodded,  not  looking  back, 
and  plunged  on  up  the  rocky  spur. 


106  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

When  she  found  him,  an  hour  later,  Forbes 
was  lying  on  a  sunny  slope  indulging  in  the 
luxury  of  a  day-dream.  He  was  stretched 
out  at  full  length,  his  arms  under  his  head, 
the  sketch-book  that  he  had  not  used  lying 
by  his  side  unopened.  For  the  life  of  him 
he  could  not  feel  that  his  position  was  seri 
ous,  and  the  mountain-air  and  the  sunshine 
intoxicated  him. 

"  Once  I  get  clear  of  this  thing,"  he  was 
saying  to  himself,  "I'll  come  back  here 
and  buy  me  a  ranch.  Why  should  anybody 
who  can  live  here  want  to  live  anywhere 
else?" 

To  him  in  this  pastoral  mood  appeared  the 
woman.  There  was  that  in  her  face  which 
made  him  spring  to  his  feet  in  vague  alarm 
before  she  opened  her  lips. 

"They're  after  you,"  she  said.  "You 
must  be  moving.  Do  you  know  what  you 
want  to  do  ?  What  was  your  idea  in  stop 
ping  here  ?  Have  you  any  plans  ?  ' ' 

He  shook  his  head  helplessly.  "  I  thought 
perhaps — Mexico  ?  " 

"  Mexico  !  But  what  you  want  just  now  is 
a  place  to  hide  in  till  they  have  given  you 
up  and  gone  along.  After  that  you  can 
think  about  Mexico.  Come  !  I've  heard  the 


AN   UNEARNED  REWARD  107 

whistle.  The  train  is  in.  You're  all  right 
if  they  don't  start  to  look  for  you  before 
supper-time,  and  I  hardly  think  they  will, 
for  they'll  expect  you  to  come  in.  But  if 
anybody  should  stroll  out  to  look  over  the 
country,  this  place  is  in  sight  from  the  knoll 
beside  the  station.  Come  !  " 

Stumbling,  he  ran  along  beside  her. 

"  I  swear  to  you,"  he  said  between  his 
labored  breaths,  "  I  did  not  do  it.  I  am  not 
unworthy  of  your  help.  But  the  evidence 
was  damning  and  my  friends  told  me  to  clear 
out.  I  may  have  been  a  fool  to  come  —  but 
it  is  done." 

Her  calm  face  did  not  change. 

"You  must  not  waste  your  breath,"  she 
warned.  "  We  have  two  miles  to  go,  and 
then  I  must  walk  to  Connor's  and  get  back 
by  six  o'clock,  or  there'll  be  trouble." 

They  were  working  their  way  back  toward 
the  station,  but  going  farther  to  the  east. 
She  explained  briefly  that  their  objective 
point  was  the  nearest  canyon.  She  knew  a 
place  there  where  any  one  would  be  invisible 
both  from  above  and  below.  It  was  fairly 
accessible — "if  you  are  sure-footed,"  she 
warned.  Here  he  might  hide  himself  in 
safety  for  a  day  or  two.  She  had  brought 


lo8  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

him  food.  It  would  not  be  comfortable,  but 
it  was  hardly  a  question  of  his  comfort. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Forbes,  sim 
ply.  "  I  don't  want  to  give  myself  up  now. 
You  are  very  good,"  he  repeated,  wondering 
a  little  why  she  should  take  the  pains. 

She  made  no  answer,  only  hastened  on. 

To  Forbes  the  way  seemed  long.  His  feet 
grew  heavy  and  his  head  bewildered.  Was 
this  really  he,  this  man  who  was  in  flight  from 
justice  and  dependent  on  the  chance  kindness 
of  a  stranger  for  shelter  from  the  clutches  of 
the  law  ? 

They  reached  the  canyon  and  began  to 
make  their  way  slowly  down  and  along  its 
side.  The  woman  led  fearlessly  over  the 
twistings  of  a  trail  imperceptible  to  him.  He 
followed  dizzily.  Suddenly  she  turned. 

"It  is  just  around  this  rock  that  juts  out 
in  front.  Is  your  head  steady  ?  It  falls  off 
sheer  below  and  the  path  is  narrow." 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  and  set  his  teeth. 

The  path  was  steep  as  well  as  narrow,  and 
the  descent  below  was  sheer  and  far.  Mid 
way  around  the  rocks  a  mist  came  over  his 
eyes.  He  put  up  his  hand,  stumbled,  fell 
forward  and  out,  was  dimly  aware  that  he  had 
fallen  against  his  guide. 


AN   UNEARNED  REWARD  109 

A  crash  and  cry  awoke  the  echoes  of  the 
canyon.  Then  silence  settled  over  it  again 
— dead  silence — and  the  night  came  down. 

Their  bodies  were  not  found  until  three 
days  later.  When  the  Eastern  detectives  had 
identified  their  man  they  proposed  his  burial, 
but  Wilson  turned  from  the  place  with  the 
muscles  of  his  throat  working  with  impotent 
emotion,  and  a  grim  look  about  his  mouth 
that  lifted  his  lips  like  those  of  a  snarling 
beast. 

"  Carrion  !  Let  it  lie,"  he  said,  with  so 
dark  a  face  that  the  men  followed  him  si 
lently,  saying  nothing  more,  and  the  two 
were  left  lying  upon  the  ground  which  had 
drunk  with  impartial  thirst  the  current  that 
oozed  from  their  jagged  wounds. 

The  suspicions  of  primitive  men  are  of  a 
primitive  nature.  Those  three  days  in  which 
nothing  had  been  seen  or  heard  of  his  wife 
or  Forbes  had  been  a  long  agony  to  Wilson. 
And  now  that  the  end  had  come  it  seemed  to 
him  that  his  basest  suspicions  were  confirmed. 
To  his  restricted  apprehension  there  was  but 
one  passion  in  the  world  that  could  have  sent 
his  wife  to  this  stranger's  side,  to  guard  and 
save  him  at  her  cost.  So  thinking,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  swift  justice  had  been  done. 


no  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

And  that  he  might  not  forget,  nor  let  his 
fierce  thoughts  of  her  grow  more  tender,  the 
next  day  when  the  train  had  gone  eastward 
and  he  was  left  alone  to  his  desolation  he 
took  his  brush  and  laboriously  wrote  across 
the  end  of  the  high  platform,  in  great  letters 
for  all  men  to  see  and  wonder  at,  the  phrase 
he  thought  her  fitting  epitaph  : 

THE  WAGES  OF  SIN  IS  DEATH. 

And  there  it  still  stands,  remaining  in  its 
stupid,  brutal  accusation  the  sole  monument 
on  earth  of  a  woman's  ended  life. 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE 


HARDESTY'S   COWARDICE 


STRAIGHT  on  before  them  stretched  the 
street,  a  wide  and  unobstructed  way  at  first, 
but  narrowing  a  little  farther  on,  where  there 
were,  besides,  buildings  going  up,  and  great 
piles  of  lumber  standing  far  out  in  the  road, 
and  heaps  of  sand,  and  mortar-beds.  Could 
he  possibly  get  the  horses  under  control  be 
fore  they  reached  those  cruel  lumber  piles, 
where  to  be  thrown  meant  death  or  worse  ? 
They  were  running  wildly,  and  it  was  down 
hill  all  the  way.  She  did  not  believe  that 
human  strength  could  do  it,  not  even  Neil's, 
and  he  was  as  strong  as  he  was  tender.  She 
looked  down  at  his  hands  and  noticed  how 
white  the  knuckles  were,  and  how  the  veins 
stood  out,  and  then  she  bent  her  head  that 
she  might  not  see  those  fatal  obstructions  in 
their  way,  and  clasped  her  hands  as  tightly 
as  her  lips.  She  found  herself  senselessly  re- 


114  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

peating,  over  and  over,  as  if  it  were  a  charm, 
' '  Broad  is  the  way  .  .  .  that  leadeth  to  de 
struction." 

It  was  a  June  morning,  cool  and  sweet. 
If  ever,  life  is  dear  in  June.  Her  eyes  fell 
on  the  great  bunch  of  white  roses  in  her 
lap.  He  had  put  them  in  her  hands  just  as 
they  were  starting,  and  then  had  bent  sud 
denly  and  left  a  quick  kiss  on  the  hands- 
It  was  only  the  other  day  he  had  told  her 
that  he  had  never,  from  the  very  first  hour 
they  met,  seen  her  hands  without  longing 
to  fill  them  with  flowers.  Would  she  be 
pleased  to  take  notice,  now  that  he  possessed 
the  right,  he  meant  to  exercise  it  ? 

Poor  roses !  Must  they  be  crushed  and 
mangled,  too?  She  did  not  like  the 
thought  of  scarlet  stains  upon  their  white 
ness,  and  with  some  wild  thought  of  saving 
them — for  were  they  not  his  roses  ? — she 
flung  them  with  a  sudden  gesture  into  the 
street. 

"Oh,  Christ!"  she  cried,  voicelessly, 
"  spare  both  of  us — or  neither  !  " 

It  was  just  then  that  the  horses  swerved 
and  reared,  the  carriage  struck  something  in 
the  road  and  tilted  sharply  to  the  right. 
She  clutched  the  side  involuntarily  and  kept 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  115 

her  seat.  When,  a  second  later,  the  car 
riage  had  righted  itself,  and  the  horses,  more 
terrified  still  and  now  wholly  uncontrolled, 
were  dashing  forward  again,  the  place  beside 
her  was  vacant,  and  the  reins  were  dragging 
on  the  ground. 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  waited.  It  was  not 
long  to  wait.  There  came  a  crash,  a  whirl, 
and  then  unconsciousness. 

The  evening  papers  contained  an  account 
of  the  fortunate  escape  from  serious  disaster 
of  Mr.  Neil  Hardesty  and  Miss  Mildred 
Fabian,  who  were  on  their  way  to  a  field 
meeting  of  the  Hambeth  Historical  Society 
when  the  young  blooded  horses  Mr.  Hard 
esty  was  driving  took  fright  at  a  bonfire  at 
at  the  corner  of  State  and  Market  Streets, 
and  started  to  run.  Owing  to  the  sharp 
down-grade  at  this  point,  their  driver  was 
unable  to  control  them.  After  keeping 
their  course  in  a  mad  gallop  down  State 
Street  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  the  carriage 
struck  an  obstruction,  tipped,  and  Mr.  Hard 
esty  was  thrown  out,  being  severely  bruised, 
but  sustaining  no  serious  injuries.  The 
horses  continued  running  wildly  for  two 
blocks  more,  when  one  of  them  ran  against  a 
lamp-post  and  was  knocked  down,  upsetting 


n6  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

the  carriage  and  throwing  Miss  Fabian  out. 
She  was  picked  up  unconscious,  but  beyond 
a  cut  on  the  head  was  also  fortunately 
uninjured.  Mr.  Hardesty  and  Miss  Fabian 
were  to  be  congratulated  upon  the  results 
of  the  runaway,  as  such  an  accident  could 
hardly  occur  once  in  a  hundred  times  with 
out  more  serious,  and  probably  fatal,  con 
sequences. 

It  was  some  two  weeks  later  that  the 
family  physician,  consulting  with  Mrs. 
Fabian  in  the  hall,  shook  his  head  and  said 
he  did  not  understand  it ;  there  was  no 
apparent  reason  why  Miss  Mildred  should 
not  have  rallied  immediately  from  the  ac 
cident.  The  shock  to  her  nervous  system 
had  doubtless  been  greater  than  he  had  at 
first  supposed.  Still,  she  had  been  in  sound 
health,  and  there  seemed  no  sufficient  cause 
for  her  marked  weakness  and  depression. 
He  would  prepare  a  tonic  and  send  it  up. 

Meeting  Neil  Hardesty,  himself  an  un 
fledged  medical  student,  entering  the  house, 
the  doctor  stopped  to  observe  : 

"  You  must  try  to  rouse  your  fiancee  a 
little.  Can't  you  cheer  her  up,  Hardesty? 
She  seems  very  much  depressed  nervously. 
Perhaps  it  is  only  natural  after  such  a  close 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  117 

shave  as  you  had.  I  did  not  care  to  look 
death  in  the  face  at  that  age.  It  sometimes 
startles  young  people  and  happy  ones. ' ' 

Neil  shook  his  head  with  an  anxious 
look. 

"It  is  not  that,"  he  said,  "for  she  is 
half  an  angel  already.  But  I  will  do  my 
best,"  and  he  passed  on  through  the  broad, 
airy,  darkened  hall  to  the  high  veranda  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  where  he  knew  he 
should  find  her  at  that  hour. 

The  veranda  overlooked  the  garden, 
blazing  just  then  with  the  flowers  of  early 
July.  She  was  lying  languidly  in  her  sea- 
chair  ;  there  were  books  around  her,  but  she 
had  not  been  reading ;  and  work,  but  she 
had  not  been  sewing.  One  hand  was  lifted 
shading  her  face.  The  lines  around  her 
mouth  were  fixed  as  if  she  were  in  pain. 

He  came  forward  quickly  and  knelt  be 
side  the  chair.  He  was  carrying  some  bril 
liant  clusters  of  scarlet  lilies,  and  he  caught 
the  small  and  rather  chilly  hand,  and  held 
it  over  them  as  if  to  warm  it  in  their  splen 
did  flame. 

' '  Do  you  know  that  you  look  cold  ?  "  he 
demanded.  "  I  want  you  to  look  at  these 
and  hold  them  till  you  are  warmed  through 


n8  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

and  through.  What  an  absurd  child  it  is  to 
look  so  chilly  in  July  !  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  let  them  rest  on 
him  with  a  sudden  radiant  expression  of 
satisfaction. 

"  It  is  because  you  are  so  unkind  as  to  go 
away — occasionally,"  she  remarked.  "  Do 
I  ever  look  cold  or  unhappy  or  dissatisfied 
while  you  are  here  ?  ' ' 

' '  Once  or  twice  in  the  last  two  weeks  you 
have  been  all  of  that.  Sweetheart,  I  must 
know  what  it  means.  Don't  you  see  you 
must  tell  me?  How  can  one  do  anything 
for  you  when  one  doesn't  know  what  is  the 
matter  ?  And  I  am  under  orders  to  see  that 
you  get  well  forthwith.  The  doctor  has 
given  you  up — to  me  !  " 

He  was  startled  when,  instead  of  the  laugh 
ing  answer  for  which  he  looked,  she  caught 
her  breath  with  half  a  sob. 

"Must  I  tell  you?"  she  said.  "Neil, 
I  do  not  dare  !  When  you  are  here  I  know 
it  is  not  so.  It  is  only  when  you  are  away 
from  me  that  the  hideous  thought  comes. 
And  I  fight  it  so  !  It  is  only  because  I  am 
tired  with  fighting  it  that  I  do  not  get 
strong. ' ' 

' '  Dear,  what  can  you  mean  ?  ' ' 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  119 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  too  horrible,  and  you  would  never 
forgive  me,  though  I  know  it  cannot  be 
true.  Oh,  Neil,  Neil,  Neil!" 

"  Mildred,  this  is  folly.  I  insist  that  you 
tell  me  at  once."  His  tone  had  lost  its 
tender  playfulness  and  was  peremptory  now. 
"Don't  you  see  that  you  are  torturing 
me  ?  "  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  helplessly. 

"  That  day,"  she  said,  reluctantly,  "when 
the  carriage  tipped  and  you  went  out,  I 
thought — I  thought  you  jumped.  Neil, 
don't  look  so ;  I  knew  you  could  not  have 
done  it,  and  yet  I  can't  get  rid  of  the 
thought,  and  it  tortures  me  that  I  can  think 
it — of  you.  Oh,  I  have  hurt  you  !  ' ' 

He  was  no  longer  kneeling  beside  her,  but 
had  risen  and  was  leaning  against  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  veranda,  looking  down  at  her 
with  an  expression  she  had  never  dreamed  of 
seeing  in  his  eyes  when  they  rested  on  her 
face.  He  was  white  to  the  lips. 

"  You  thought  that?  You  have  thought 
it  these  two  weeks  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  torture.  Neil,  say  you 
did  not,  and  let  me  be  at  rest. ' ' 

"  And  you  ask  me  to  deny  it  ?    You  ?  " 


120  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

His  voice  was  very  bitter.  "I  wonder  if 
you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  ' ' 

"  Neil,  Neil,  say  you  did  not !  " 

He  set  his  teeth. 

"  Never  !  " 

He  broke  the  silence  which  followed  by 
asking,  wearily,  at  last : 

"  What  was  your  idea  in  telling  me  this, 
Mildred?  Of  course  you  knew  it  was  the 
sort  of  thing  that  is  irrevocable." 

"I  knew  nothing  except  that  I  must  get 
rid  of  the  thought." 

"Can't  you  imagine  what  it  is  to  a  man 
to  be  charged  with  cowardice?  " 

"  I  charge  nothing.  But  if  you  would 
only  deny  it !  " 

"  Oh,  this  is  hopeless  !  "  he  said,  with  an 
impatient  groan.  "It  is  irremediable.  If 
I  denied  it,  you  would  still  doubt ;  but  even 
if  you  did  not,  I  could  never  forget  that  you 
had  once  thought  me  a  coward.  There  are 
some  things  one  may  not  forgive." 

Silence  again. 

"  And  my — my  wife  must  never  have 
doubted  me." 

She  raised  her  eyes  at  last. 

"  If  you  are  going,  pray  go  at  once,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  too  weak  for  this." 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  121 

She  said  it,  but  she  did  not  mean  it.  After 
all,  it  was  the  one  impossible  thing  on  earth 
that  anything  should  come  between  them. 
Surely  she  could  not  alter  the  course  of  two 
lives  by  five  minutes  of  unguarded  hysterical 
speech  or  a  week  or  two  of  unfounded  fret 
ting. 

But  he  took  up  his  hat,  and  turned  it  in 
his  hands. 

"  As  you  wish,"  he  said,  coldly,  and  then 
"  Good-morning,"  and  was  gone. 


II 


"I  THINK  that  is  all,"  said  the  hurried, 
jaded  doctor  to  the  Northern  nurse.  "  The 
child  is  convalescent — you  understand  about 
the  nourishment  ? — and  you  know  what  to 
do  for  Mrs.  Leroy  ?  I  shall  bring  some  one 
who  will  stay  with  her  husband  within  the 
hour." 

Outside  was  the  glare  of  sun  upon  white 
sand — a  pitiless  sun,  whose  rising  and  setting 
seemed  the  only  things  done  in  due  order  in 
all  the  hushed  and  fever-smitten  city.  With 
in  was  a  shaded  green  gloom  and  the  an 
guished  moaning  of  a  sick  woman. 


122  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Mildred  Fabian,  alone  with  her  patients 
and  the  one  servant  who  had  not  deserted 
the  house,  faced  her  work  and  felt  her  heart 
rise  with  exultation — a  singular,  sustaining 
joy  that  never  yet  had  failed  her  in  the  hour 
of  need.  The  certainty  of  hard  work,  the 
consciousness  of  danger,  the  proximity  of 
death  —  these  acted  always  upon  her  like 
some  subtle  stimulant.  If  she  had  tried  to 
explain  this,  which  she  did  not,  she  would 
perhaps  have  said  that  at  no  other  time  did 
she  have  such  an  overwhelming  conviction 
of  the  soul's  supremacy  as  in  the  hours 
of  human  extremity.  And  this  conviction, 
strongest  in  the  teeth  of  all  that  would  seem 
most  vehemently  to  deny  it,  was  to  her 
nothing  less  than  intoxicating. 

She  was  not  one  of  the  women  to  whom 
there  still  seems  much  left  in  life  when  love 
is  gone.  To  be  sure,  she  had  the  consola 
tions  of  religion  and  a  certain  sweet  reason 
ableness  of  temperament  which  prompted 
her  to  pick  up  the  pieces  after  a  crash,  and 
make  the  most  of  what  might  be  left.  But 
she  was  obliged  to  do  this  in  her  own  way. 
She  was  sorry,  but  she  could  not  do  it  in 
her  mother's  way. 

When  she  told  her  family  that  her  engage- 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  123 

ment  was  at  an  end,  that  she  did  not  care  to 
explain  how  the  break  came,  and  that  if 
they  meant  to  be  kind  they  would  please 
not  bother  her  about  it,  she  knew  that 
her  mother  would  have  been  pleased  to  have 
her  take  up  her  old  life  with  a  little  more 
apparent  enthusiasm  for  it  than  she  had 
ever  shown  before.  To  be  a  little  gayer, 
a  little  more  occupied,  a  little  prettier  if 
possible,  and  certainly  a  little  more  fascinat 
ing — that  was  her  mother's  idea  of  saving 
the  pieces.  But  Mildred's  way  was  differ 
ent,  and  after  dutifully  endeavoring  to  carry 
out  her  mother's  conception  of  the  conduct 
proper  to  the  circumstances  with  a  dismal 
lack  of  success,  she  took  her  own  path,  which 
led  her  through  a  training  school  for  nurses 
first,  and  so,  ultimately,  to  Jacksonville. 

The  long  day  wore  slowly  into  night. 
The  doctor  had  returned  very  shortly  with  a 
man,  whether  physician  or  nurse  she  did  not 
know,  whom  he  left  with  Mr.  Leroy.  The 
little  maid,  who  had  been  dozing  in  the 
upper  hall,  received  some  orders  concerning 
the  preparation  of  food  which  she  proceeded 
to  execute.  The  convalescent  child  rested 
well.  The  sick  woman  passed  from  the  first 
to  the  second  stage  of  the  disease  and  was 


124  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

more  quiet.  The  doctor  came  again  after 
nightfall.  He  looked  at  her  charges  wearily, 
and  told  Mildred  that  the  master  of  the 
house  would  not  rally. 

"  He  is  my  friend,  and  I  can  do  no  more 
for  him,"  he  said,  almost  with  apathy. 

The  night  passed  as  even  nights  in  sick 
rooms  will,  and  at  last  it  began  to  grow  to 
ward  day.  The  nurse  became  suddenly 
conscious  of  deadly  weariness  and  need  of 
rest.  She  called  the  servant  and  left  her  in 
charge,  with  a  few  directions  and  the  injunc 
tion  to  call  her  at  need,  and  then  stole  down 
the  stairs  to  snatch,  before  she  rested,  the 
breath  of  morning  air  she  craved. 

As  she  stood  at  the  veranda's  edge  in  the 
twilight  coolness  and  twilight  hush  watch 
ing  the  whitening  sky,  there  came  steps  be 
hind  her,  and  turning,  she  came  face  to  face 
with  Neil  Hardesty.  She  stared  at  him  with 
unbelieving  eyes. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  he  said. 

"  You  were  with  Mr.  Leroy?  "  she  asked. 
' '  Are  you  going  ?  ' ' 

"  My  work  is  over  here,"  he  answered, 
quietly.  "  I  am  going  to  send — some  one 
else. ' ' 

She  bent  her  head  a  second's  space  with 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  125 

the  swift  passing  courtesy  paid  death  by 
those  to  whom  it  has  become  a  more  familiar 
friend  than  life  itself,  then  lifted  it,  and  for 
a  minute  they  surveyed  each  other  gravely. 

"  This  is  like  meeting  you  on  the  other 
side  of  the  grave,"  she  said.  "  How  came 
you  here?  I  thought  you  were  in  Cali 
fornia.  ' ' 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  Europe." 

"  I  was  for  awhile,  but  there  was  nothing 
there  I  wanted.  Then  I  came  back  and 
entered  the  training  school.  After  this  is 
over  I  have  arranged  to  join  the  sisterhood 
of  St.  Margaret.  I  think  I  can  do  better 
work  so." 

"  Let  me  advise  you  not  to  mistake  your 
destiny.  You  were  surely  meant  for  the 
life  of  home  and  society,  and  can  do  a 
thousand-fold  more  good  that  way." 

"  You  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  sim 
ply.  "I  am  very  happy  in  my  life.  It 
suits  me  utterly.  I  have  never  been  so  per 
fectly  at  peace. ' ' 

"  But  it  will  wear  you  out,"  he  mur 
mured. 

She  looked  at  him  out  of  her  great  eyes, 
surprisedly.  It  was  a  look  he  knew  of  old. 

"  Why,  I  expect  it  to,"  she  answered. 


126  A   BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

There  was  a  little  silence  before  she  went 
on,  apparently  without  effort : 

"I  am  glad  to  come  across  you  again,  for 
there  is  one  thing  I  have  wanted  to  say  to 
you  almost  ever  since  we  parted,  and  it  has 
grieved  me  to  think  I  might  never  be  able 
to  say  it.  It  is  this.  While  I  do  not  regret 
anything  else,  and  while  I  am  sure  now  that 
it  was  best  for  both  of  us — or  else  it  would 
not  have  happened — I  have  always  been 
sorry  that  the  break  between  us  came  in  the 
way  it  did.  I  regret  that.  It  hurts  me  still 
when  I  remember  of  what  I  accused  you.  I 
am  sure  I  was  unjust.  No  wonder  you  were 
bitter  against  me.  I  have  often  prayed  that 
that  bitterness  might  pass  out  of  your  soul, 
and  that  I  might  know  it.  So — I  ask  your 
forgiveness  for  my  suspicion.  It  will  make 
me  happier  to  know  you  have  quite  forgiven 
me." 

He  did  not  answer.   She  waited  patiently. 

"Surely" — she  spoke  with  pained  sur 
prise  — ' '  surely  you  can  forgive  me  now  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  God!" 

She  looked  at  his  set  face  uncomprehend 
ing.  Why  should  it  be  with  such  a  mighty 
effort  that  he  unclosed  his  lips  at  last  ?  His 
voice  came  forced  and  hard. 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  127 

"  I — I  did  it,  Mildred.  I  was  the  coward 
that  you  thought  me.  I  don't  know  what 
insensate  fear  came  over  me  and  took  pos 
session  of  me  utterly,  but  it  was  nothing  to 
the  fear  I  felt  afterwards  —  for  those  two 
weeks — that  you  might  suspect  me  of  it. 
And  when  I  knew  you  did  I  was  mad  with 
grief  and  anger  at  myself,  and  yet — it  seems 
to  me  below  contempt — I  tried  to  save  my 
miserable  pride.  But  I  have  always  meant 
that  you  should  know  at  last. ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  with  blank  uncompre- 
hension. 

"  I  did  it,"  he  repeated,  doggedly,  and 
waited  for  the  change  he  thought  to  see 
upon  her  face.  It  came,  but  with  a  differ 
ence. 

"  You — you  did  it?  "  for  the  idea  made 
its  way  but  slowly  to  her  mind.  "  Then  " 
— with  a  rush  of  feeling  that  she  hardly  un 
derstood,  and  an  impetuous,  tender  gesture 
— "  then  let  me  comfort  you." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  woman  who  had 
loved  him,  and  not  of  any  Sister  of  Charity, 
however  gracious,  that  he  heard  again,  but 
he  turned  sharply  away. 

"God  forbid,"  he  said,  and  she  shrank 
from  the  misery  in  his  voice;  "  God  forbid 


128  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

that  even  you  should  take  away  my  punish 
ment.  Don't  you  see?  It  is  all  the  com 
fort  I  dare  have,  to  go  where  there  is  danger 
and  to  face  death  when  I  can,  till  the  day 
comes  when  I  am  not  afraid,  for  I  am  a 
coward  yet." 

She  stretched  her  hands  out  toward  him 
blindly.  I  am  afraid  that  she  forgot  just 
then  all  the  boasted  sweetness  of  her  present 
life,  her  years  of  training,  and  her  coming 
postulancy  at  St.  Margaret's,  as  well  as  the 
heinousness  of  his  offence.  She  forgot  every 
thing,  save  that  this  was  Neil,  and  that  he 
suffered. 

But  all  that  she,  being  a  woman  and  mer 
ciful,  forgot,  he,  being  a  man  and  something 
more  than  just,  remembered. 

"  Good-by,  and  God  be  with  you,"  he 
said. 

"  Neil!  "  she  cried.     "Neil!  " 

But  his  face  was  set  steadfastly  toward  the 
heart  of  the  stricken  city,  and  he  neither 
answered  nor  looked  back. 

The  future  sister  of  St.  Margaret's  watched 
him  with  a  heart  that  ached  as  she  had 
thought  it  could  never  ache  again.  All  the 
hard-won  peace  of  her  patient  years,  which 
she  thought  so  secure  a  possession,  had  gone 


HARDESTY'S  COWARDICE  129 

at  once  and  was  as  though  it  had  not  been  ; 
for  he,  with  all  his  weaknesses  upon  him, 
was  still  the  man  she  loved. 

"  Lord,  give  him  back  to  me  !  "  she  cried, 
yet  felt  the  cry  was  futile. 

Slowly  she  climbed  the  stairs  again,  won 
dering  where  was  the  courage  and  quiet  con 
fidence  that  had  sustained  her  so  short  a  time 
ago. 

Was  it  true,  then,  that  heaven  was  only  •' 
excellent  when  earth   could  not   be   had  ?  ) 
She   was  the   coward   now.     In  her   mind  ' 
there  were  but  two  thoughts — the  desire  to 
see  him  again,  and  a  new,  appalling  fear  of 
death. 

She  re-entered  the  sick-room  where  the 
girl  was  watching  her  patients  with  awed 
eyes. 

"You  need  not  stay  here,"  she  said, 
softly.  "I  cannot  sleep  now.  I  will  call 
you  when  I  can." 


"THE  HONOR  OF   A   GENTLEMAN" 


"  THE  HONOR  OF   A   GENTLEMAN  " 


BECAUSE  there  was  so  little  else  left  him  to 
be  proud  of,  he  clung  the  more  tenaciously 
to  his  pride  in  his  gentle  blood  and  the  spot 
less  fame  of  his  forefathers.  There  was  no 
longer  wealth  nor  state  nor  position  to  give 
splendor  to  the  name,  but  this  was  the  less 
sad  in  that  he  himself  was  the  sole  survivor 
of  that  distinguished  line.  He  was  glad  that 
he  had  no  sisters  —  a  girl  should  not  be 
brought  up  in  sordid,  ignoble  surroundings, 
such  as  he  had  sometimes  had  to  know  ;  as 
for  brothers,  if  there  had  been  two  of  them 
to  make  the  fight  against  the  world  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  life  might  have  seemed  a  cheer 
ier  thing  ;  but  thus  far  he  had  gotten  on 
alone.  And  the  world  was  not  such  an  un 
kindly  place,  after  all.  Though  he  was  a 
thousand  miles  away  from  the  old  home,  in 


134  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

this  busy  Northwestern  city  where  he  and 
his  were  unknown,  he  was  not  without 
friends ;  he  knew  a  few  nice  people.  He  had 
money  enough  to  finish  his  legal  studies  ; 
if  there  had  not  been  enough,  he  supposed 
he  could  have  earned  it  somehow ;  he  was 
young  and  brave  enough  to  believe  that  he 
could  do  anything  his  self-respect  demanded 
of  him.  If  it  sometimes  asked  what  might 
seem  to  a  practical  world  fantastic  sacrifices 
at  his  hands,  was  he  not  ready  to  give  them  ? 
At  least,  had  he  not  always  been  ready  be 
fore  he  met  Virginia  Fenley  ? 

She  reminded  him  of  his  mother,  did 
Virginia,  though  no  two  women  in  the 
world  were  ever  fundamentally  more  differ 
ent.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  likeness  be 
tween  the  little  pearl-set  miniature  which 
he  cherished,  showing  Honora  Le  Garde  in 
the  prime  of  her  beauty,  and  this  girl  who 
looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  of  the  self-same 
brown.  Surely,  Virginia  should  not  be  held 
responsible  for  the  fact  that  a  slender,  grace 
ful  creature  with  yellow  hair  and  dark-lashed 
hazel  eyes,  with  faint  pink  flushes  coming 
and  going  in  her  cheeks,  and  the  air  of  look 
ing  out  at  the  world  with  indifference  from 
a  safe  and  sheltered  distance,  was  Roderick 


"  THE   HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  "      135 

Le  Garde's  ideal  of  womanhood,  and  that  he 
regarded  her,  the  representative  of  the  type, 
as  the  embodiment  of  everything  sweetest 
and  highest  in  human  nature.  Virginia's 
physique,  like  Roderick's  preconceptions  of 
life  and  love  and  honor,  was  an  inheritance, 
but  a  less  significant  one ;  it  required  an 
effort  to  live  up  to  it,  and  Virginia  was  not 
fond  of  effort. 

His  feeling  for  her  was  worship.  Vir 
ginia  had  not  been  looking  on  at  the  pageant 
(Roderick  would  have  called  it  a  pageant)  of 
society  very  long,  but  she  was  a  beautiful 
girl  and  a  rich  one  ;  therefore  she  had  seen 
what  called  itself  love  before. 

As  an  example  of  what  a  suitor's  attitude 
should  be,  she  preferred  Roderick's  expres 
sion  of  devotion  to  that  of  any  man  she 
knew.  He  made  her  few  compliments,  and 
those  in  set  and  guarded  phrase ;  except  on 
abstract  topics,  his  speech  with  her  was  re 
strained  to  the  point  of  chilliness ;  even  the 
admiration  of  his  eyes  was  controlled  as  they 
met  hers.  But  on  rare  occasions  the  veil 
dropped  from  them,  and  then — Virginia  did 
not  know  what  there  was  about  these  occa 
sions  that  she  should  find  them  so  fascinat 
ing  ;  that  she  should  watch  for  them  and 


136  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

wait  for  them,  and  even  try  to  provoke  them, 
as  she  did. 

Worship  is  not  exactly  the  form  of  senti 
ment  of  which  hopelessness  can  be  predi 
cated,  but  Roderick  was  human  enough  to 
wish  that  the  niche  in  which  his  angel  was 
enshrined  might  be  in  his  own  home.  He 
let  her  see  this  one  day  in  the  simplicity  of 
his  devotion. 

"  Not  that  I  ask  for  anything,  you  under 
stand,"  he  added,  hastily.  "  I  could  not  do 
that.  It  is  only  that  I  would  give  you  the 
knowledge  that  I  love  you,  as — as  I  might 
give  you  a  rose  to  wear.  It  honors  the 
flower,  you  see,"  he  said,  rather  wistfully. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and  he  wondered 
why  there  should  flash  across  his  mind  a 
recollection  of  the  flowers  she  had  worn  yes 
terday,  a  cluster  of  Marechal  Niels  that  she 
had  raised  to  her  lips  once  or  twice,  kissing 
the  golden  petals.  She  made  absolutely  no 
answer  to  his  speech,  unless  the  faintest, 
most  evanescent  of  all  her  faint  smiles  could 
be  called  an  answer.  But  she  was  not 
angry,  and  she  gave  him  her  hand  at  part 
ing. 

In  spite  of  her  silence  she  thought  of  his 
words.  The  little  that  she  had  to  say  upon 


"  THE  HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  "      137 

the  subject  she  said  to  her  father  as  they  were 
sitting  before  the  library  fire  that  evening. 

John  Fenley  was  a  prosperous  lumberman, 
possessed  of  an  affluent  good  nature  which 
accorded  well  with  his  other  surroundings  in 
life.  Virginia  was  his  only  child,  and  moth 
erless.  She  could  not  remember  that  her 
father  ever  refused  her  anything  in  his  life ; 
and  certainly  he  had  never  done  so  while 
smoking  his  after-dinner  cigar. 

"  Papa,"  she  began,  in  her  pretty,  delib 
erate  way — "  papa,  Roderick  Le  Garde  is  in 
love  with  me." 

Her  father  looked  up  at  her  keenly.  She 
was  not  blushing,  and  she  was  not  confused. 
He  watched  a  smoke-ring  dissolve,  then  an 
swered,  comfortably, 

"  Well,  there  is  nothing  remarkable  about 
that." 

"  That  is  true,"  assented  Virginia.  "  The 
remarkable  thing  is  that  I  like  him — a  lit 
tle."  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  fire. 
There  was  a  pause  before  she  went  on.  "  I 
have  never  liked  any  of  them  at  all  before, 
as  you  know  very  well.  I  never  expect  to — • 
very  much.  Papa,  you  afford  me  everything 
I  want ;  can  you  afford  me  Roderick  Le 
Garde?" 


138  A   BOOK   OF  MARTYRS 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  asking,  Vir 
ginia,  or  why?"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  I  have  thought  it  over,  of  course. 
Couldn't  you  put  him  in  charge  at  one  of 
the  mills  or  somewhere  on  a  comfortable 
number  of  thousands  a  year  ?  Of  course  I 
can't  starve,  you  know,  and  frocks  cost  some 
thing." 

"  My  daughter  is  not  likely  to  want  for 
frocks,"  said  John  Fenley,  frowning  invol 
untarily.  "  You  did  not  take  my  meaning. 
I  wish  your  mother  were  here,  child." 

"  I  am  sufficiently  interested,  if  that  is 
what  you  mean,"  said  Virginia,  still  tran 
quilly.  "  He  is  different,  papa;  and  I  am 
tired  of  the  jeunesse  dor&e.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  I  am  so  much  doree  myself  that  they 
bore  me.  Roderick  has  enthusiasms  and 
ideals;  I  am  one  of  them  ;  I  like  it.  You, 
papa,  love  me  for  what  I  am.  It  is  much 
more  exciting  to  be  loved  for  what  one  is 
not." 

Her  father  knit  his  brows  and  smoked  in 
silence  for  a  few  minutes.  Virginia  played 
with  the  ribbons  of  her  pug. 

"  Marylander,  isn't  he  ?" 

"Something  of  the  sort;  I  forget  just 
what." 


"THE  HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN"      139 

«H'm!" 

"  Lc  Garde  isn't  a  business  man,"  John 
Fenley  said,  at  length. 

"Isn't  he?"  asked  Virginia,  politely 
smothering  a  yawn. 

"Is  he?  You  know  enough  about  it  to 
know  how  important  it  is  that  any  man  who 
is  to  work  into  my  affairs,  and  ultimately 
to  take  my  place,  should  know  business  and 
mean  business,  Virgie.  It  is  a  long  way 
from  poverty  to  wealth,  but  a  short  one  from 
wealth  to  poverty. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Virginia,  "I  know;  but  I 
also  know  enough  about  it  to  be  sure  that  I 
could  manage  the  business  if  it  became  ne 
cessary.  You  and  I  are  both  business  men, 
dear.  Let  us  import  a  new  element  into 
the  family." 

Fenley  laughed  proudly.  "  By  Jove  !  I 
believe  you  could  do  it  !  "  A  little  further 
silence  ;  then,  "  So  your  heart  is  set  on  this, 
daughter  ?  ' ' 

"Have  I  a  heart?"  asked  Virginia,  se 
dately,  rising  and  leaning  an  elbow  on  the 
mantel  as  she  held  up  one  small,  daintily 
slippered  foot  to  the  blaze. 


140  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 


II 


LONG  afterward  he  used  to  wonder  how  it 
had  ever  come  to  pass — that  first  false  step 
of  his,  the  surrender  of  his  profession,  and 
so  of  his  liberty.  Before  middle  life  a  man 
sometimes  forgets  the  imperious  secret  of  the 
springs  that  moved  his  youthful  actions.  In 
reality,  the  mechanism  of  his  decision  was 
very  simple. 

"  How  can  I  give  up  my  profession?  "  he 
asked  Virginia. 

She  smiled  up  into  his  eyes,  her  own  ex 
pressing  a  divine  confidence.  "  But  how 
can  you  give  up  me  ?  ' ' 

Though  his  doubts  were  not  thereby  laid 
to  rest,  the  matter  was  practically  settled, 
and  it  was  understood  between  them  that  he 
was  to  accept  her  father's  unnecessarily  lib 
eral  offer,  and  take  his  place  in  John  Fenley's 
business  as  his  own  son  might  have  done. 
This  may  have  been  unwise,  but  it  was  not 
unnatural,  and  if  there  was  any  unwisdom  in 
the  proceeding,  it  was  apparent  to  no  eyes 
but  Roderick's  own.  Other  people  said 
what  other  people  always  say  under  such  cir- 


"  THE  HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  "      141 

cumstances — that  young  Le  Garde  was  in 
luck;  that  he  would  have  a  "  soft  snap"  of 
it  as  John  Fenley's  son-in-law  ;  that  he  had 
shown  more  sagacity  in  feathering  his  own 
nest  than  could  have  been  expected  of  such 
an  impractical  young  fellow.  They  did  not 
understand  his  chill  reserve  when  congratu 
lated  on  this  brilliant  bit  of  success  in  life. 
If  they  had  spoken  of  his  good  fortune  in 
being  loved  by  Virginia,  that  was  something 
a  man  could  understand.  The  gods  might 
envy  Virginia's  lover,  but  that  he,  Roder 
ick  Le  Garde,  should  be  congratulated  on 
becoming  John  Fenley's  son-in-law  was  in 
tolerable. 

He  by  no  means  pretended  to  scorn 
money,  however,  and  he  felt  as  strongly  as  did 
Fenley  that  Virginia  must  have  it.  Luxury 
was  her  natural  atmosphere — any  woman's 
perhaps,  but  surely  hers.  Other  men  sacri 
ficed  other  things  for  the  women  that  they 
loved.  He  gave  up  his  proud  independence 
and  his  proper  work,  and  was  sublimely  sure 
that  Virginia  understood  what  the  sacrifice 
cost  him. 

But  it  was  true  that  he  was  not  a  business 
man  by  nature,  and  his  first  few  years  in 
John  Fenley's  service  were  not  the  exacting 


142  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

drill  which  would  have  given  him  what  he 
lacked.  Although  he  conscientiously  en 
deavored  to  carry  his  share  of  the  burden 
and  do  well  what  fell  to  him  to  do,  the  fact 
was  that  John  Fenley  was  a  great  deal  too 
energetic  and  too  fond  of  managing  his  own 
affairs  to  give  up  any  duties  to  another  which 
he  could  possibly  perform  for  himself.  Thus 
Roderick's  various  positions  were  always 
more  or  less  of  sinecures  as  far  as  responsi 
bility  was  concerned,  and  he  had  a  large  mar 
gin  of  leisure  as  well  as  a  sufficient  amount 
of  money  to  devote  to  good  books  and  good 
horses,  pursuits  which  met  the  approval  of 
his  father-in-law  as  being  the  "  tastes  of  a 
gentleman." 

John  Fenley  did  not  show  his  usual  fore 
sight,  certainly,  in  encouraging  Roderick 
to  be  in  the  business  and  not  of  it ;  but 
then  he  confidently  expected  to  live  to  set 
tle  up  all  his  own  affairs,  and  turn  his  large 
fortune  into  a  shape  in  which  it  would 
be  more  easily  managed  than  in  its  prim 
itive  form  of  timber  lands  and  saw  -  mills. 
No  one  could  have  anticipated  his  death, 
which  occurred  in  the  prime  of  his  active 
life,  some  five  years  after  his  daughter's  mar 
riage. 


"THE  HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN"      143 

Even  then  his  son-in-law  hardly  took  the 
position  expected  of  him.  His  long  habit 
of  standing  aside  was  not  easily  overcome, 
and  Mrs.  Le  Garde,  who  had  a  taste  for 
affairs,  and  Mr.  Rogers,  her  father's  private 
secretary,  had  actually  more  to  do  with  cer 
tain  important  transactions  than  the  nominal 
head  of  the  business. 

One  of  these  transactions  was  as  fol 
lows  : 

''Mrs.  Le  Garde,"  said  Mr.  Rogers, 
being  shown  into  the  library  one  chilly  after 
noon  in  early  October,  "  Macomb  has  cabled 
from  Vienna  to  his  agent  here  to  close  with 
us  for  that  tract  of  Michigan  timber,  paying 
the  price  agreed  upon  for  cash.  I  have  had 
the  papers  ready  for  some  time,  and  they 
only  want  signing.  If  you  can  come  down 
town  at  once " 

Virginia  looked  down  at  her  tea-gown,  and 
then  at  the  cheerful  little  fire  on  the  hearth, 
and  her  novel  lying  face  downward  on  the 
easiest  chair. 

"  Won't  to-morrow  morning  do  as  well  ?" 
she  asked,  languidly. 

"  If  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,  by  no 
means,  Mrs.  Le  Garde,"  said  Mr.  Rogers, 
suavely. 


144  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Something  in  his  manner  attracted  her  at 
tention. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  demanded. 

Mr.  Rogers  looked  at  the  fire  for  a  moment 
before  replying.  "You  wish  to  realize  upon 
the  land,  you  see,"  he  observed,  vaguely. 
"  The  cablegram  was  received  this  morning. 
Macomb's  agent  has  no  choice  but  to  act  on 
it  now.  By  to-morrow,  or  next  day  at  the 
farthest,  there  may  be  reasons  apparent  which 
would  justify  him  in  declaring  the  deal  off. 
It  is  worth  your  while,  and  ii  should  be  made 
worth  mine,"  said  Mr.  Rogers,  leaning  up 
on  the  words,  "  to  see  that  the  matter  is 
settled  this  afternoon.  I  have  private  ad 
vices  that  forest  fires  have  started  in  north 
ern  Michigan  —  ah  —  somewhat  in  this 
vicinity,  and  their  spread  is  greatly  to  be 
feared.  I  have  not  mentioned  this  to  Mr. 
Le  Garde." 

Mrs.  Le  Garde  hesitated  a  moment.  It 
would  be  charitable  to  suppose  that  she  did 
not  understand  the  situation  so  lightly 
sketched  in,  but  I  am  afraid  she  did.  Mr. 
Rogers  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  well,"  she  said,  carelessly,  "  to-day 
or  to-morrow,  it  doesn't  signify.  If  you  will 
have  a  notary  and  Macomb's  agent  at  Mr. 


"  THE  HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  "      145 

Le  Garde's  office  in  half  an  hour,  Mr.  Rogers, 
I  will  be  there." 

So  it  was  that  the  papers  were  executed 
and  payment  made  that  afternoon.  The  next 
day  but  one,  "  Forest  Fires.  Danger  to  Lum 
ber  Interests  in  Michigan,"  was  a  prominent 
head-line  in  the  morning  papers. 

When  Macomb  came  home  from  Vienna 
to  look  after  his  own  affairs  a  month  later 
he  found  himself  the  owner  of  a  diminished 
bank  account  and  some  hundreds  of  acres 
of  smoking  pine-stumps. 

He  made  a  trip  to  northern  Michigan  to 
survey  these  latter  possessions,  and  while  there 
succeeded  in  securing  some  interesting  state 
ments  which  it  pleased  him  to  call  "  facts." 
Armed  with  these,  he  went  to  Roderick  Le 
Garde,  and  laid  his  case  before  him. 

"  First  of  all,  I  want  to  say  that  I  have 
always  thought  you  an  honest  man,  Le 
Garde, ' '  he  observed,  ' '  and  I  wish  to  say 
that  I  am  bringing  no  personal  accusations, 
though  the  case  looks  black  for  you.  But  I 
know  your  man  Rogers  is  a  d d  scoun 
drel,  though  I  fail  to  see  how  the  sale  could 
profit  him,  apart  from  its  advantages  to  you. 
But  you  will  see  I  have  proof  that  he  was 
well-informed  on  the  day  the  transfer  took 


146  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

place  that  that  tract  of  timber  was  already  on 
fire  in  a  dozen  places,  and  nothing  on  earth 
could  save  it  from  destruction.  I  call  that 
obtaining  money  under  false  pretences,  and  I 
warn  you  if  you  don't  desire  to  repurchase  the 
entire  tract  at  the  price  I  paid  for  it,  that  I 
propose  to  see  at  once  what  the  courts  will 
call  it." 

' '  Much  obliged  for  your  good  opinion  of 
me, ' '  said  Le  Garde,  dryly.  ' '  I  have  perfect 
confidence  in  Rogers  " — this  was  not  strictly 
true,  but  Roderick  was  angry  —  "  and  none 
at  all  in  your  so-called  '  proofs.'  I  shall  do 
a  little  investigating  for  myself.  If  I  find,  as 
I  believe,  that  Rogers  had  no  other  informa 
tion  in  the  matter  than  I  myself  possessed, 
and  that  you  have  met  with  your  losses  only 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  you  may 
bring  as  many  suits  as  you  like,  and  rest  as 
sured  that  the  Fenley  estate  will  fight  them 
to  the  last  dollar.  If  it  is  otherwise — but 
nothing  else  is  possible  !  Good-morning, 
sir." 


"  THE   HONOR  OF  A   GENTLEMAN  "      147 


III 


"VIRGINIA!  Do  you  mean  that  Rogers 
actually  approached  you  in  the  matter?  " 

Mrs.  Le  Garde  moved  uneasily  under  the 
scorching  light  in  her  husband's  eyes.  It 
was  a  new  experience  to  see  anything  but 
tenderness  in  his  face,  but  she  respected  him 
for  the  look  she  resented. 

"  He  had  to  consult  some  one,  of  course. 
You  have  given  no  attention  to  things  of 
late."  Her  voice  was  irritatingly  even. 
' '  Papa  always  said  you  had  no  head  for 
business." 

"Your  father  was  an  honest  man,  Vir 
ginia,"  cried  her  husband,  desperately. 
"  He  would  have  been  the  last  person  in 
the  world  to  attempt  to  increase  his  gains 
dishonestly." 

"  I  see  nothing  dishonest  about  it,"  said 
Virginia,  coldly.  "  I  really  think  Roderick, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  it  would  have 
been  more  appropriate  if  you  had  learned 
something  about  money  in  the  last  seven 
years— besides  how  to  spend  it." 

Nothing  dishonest ! 

"  Don't     you    understand,"     demanded 


148  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

Le  Garde,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  that  the 
'  commission  '  you  paid  Rogers  was  black 
mail,  the  price  of  his  '  news  '  and  his  si 
lence  ?  ' ' 

Mrs.  Le  Garde  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Roderick  rose  dumbly.  He  knew  all  that 
he  need.  The  room  whirled  round  him. 
How  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  house  he 
did  not  know.  Had  he  served  seven  years 
— for  this  ?  The  fair  house  of  his  life,  built 
up  on  the  insubstantial  foundations  of  a 
woman's  silence  and  her  sweet  looks,  was 
tumbling  about  his  ears.  She  whom  he 
had  made  his  wife,  who  wore  the  name  he 
honored  though  it  was  his  own,  whom  he 
had  worshipped  as  woman  never  yet  was  wor 
shipped,  had  failed  in  common  honesty,  and 
taunted  him  with  the  life  he  had  led  for  her 
sake.  She  had  betrayed  him  into  a  shameful 
position.  That  restitution  was  an  easy  mat 
ter  and  might  be  a  secret  one  did  not  make 
the  case  less  hard.  He  could  have  defended 
her  had  she  been  disgraced  in  the  world's 
eyes,  but  how  might  he  defend  her  from  him 
self? 

It  was  a  raw  November  night.  As  he 
went  swiftly  on,  he  felt  the  river-mists  sweep 
soft  against  his  face.  He  wrung  his  helpless 


"  THE   HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  "      149 

hands.  "  Oh,  God  !  It  is  dishonor  !  What 
shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

No  help  in  the  murky  sky  above  him ; 
none  in  the  home  whose  lights  lay  behind  ; 
none  in  the  river  that  rushed  along  beneath 
the  bluff — that  was  the  refuge  of  a  coward 
and  a  shirk.  Had  he  not  already  shirked 
too  much  in  life? 

What  must  he  do?  He  tried  to  think  col 
lectedly,  but  in  his  pain  he  could  not. 
There  were  visions  before  his  eyes.  He 
saw  Virginia  as  she  had  seemed  to  him 
seven  years  ago — five  years — yesterday — to 
night.  Was  it  true  that  he  had  never  really 
seen  her  till  to-night  ? 

Oh,  that  brave,  lost  youth  of  his !  His 
strong,  light-hearted  youth,  with  its  poverty, 
its  pride,  and  its  blessed,  blessed  freedom  ! 
If  he  could  but  go  back  to  it,  and  feel  him 
self  his  own  man  once  more,  with  his  life 
before  him  to  be  lived  as  he  had  planned  it. 
How  was  it  that  he  had  become  entangled 
with  a  soul  so  alien  to  his  own  ?  And  what 
did  a  man  do  when  he  reached  a  point  from 
which  he  could  not  go  back,  yet  loathed  to 
go  forward  ? 

He  tramped  on  and  on  through  the  driz 
zling  November  darkness.  Gradually  the 


150  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

tumult  in  his  heart  was  stilled.  He  became 
aware  that  the  air  was  cold,  that  he  was 
splashed  with  mud  and  rain,  that  he  had  no 
hat,  and  wore  only  thin  evening  clothes.  He 
turned  at  last,  his  teeth  chattering  in  his 
head,  and  plodded  back. 

Two  things  grew  clear  before  his  mind — 
he  must  settle  with  Macomb  to-morrow,  and 
he  must  henceforth  assume  the  control  of 
John  Fenley's  affairs  which  he  had  hitherto 
nominally  possessed.  Thank  Heaven  for  the 
gift  of  work  ! 

And  Virginia  ? 

Who  was  it  who  said  that  for  our  sins 
there  was  all  forgiveness,  but  our  mistakes 
even  infinite  mercy  could  not  pardon  ?  Vir 
ginia  was  a  mistake  of  his  ;  that  was  all.  It 
was  safer  to  blame  himself,  not  her — not  her. 
That  way  lay  madness. 

Perhaps  she,  too,  had  found  herself  mis 
taken.  Was  that  the  secret  he  sometimes 
fancied  he  saw  stirring  behind  the  curtain 
of  her  placid  eyes?  If  so,  God  pity  them  ; 
and  God  help  him  to  play  the  part  he  had  to 
play. 

He  had  reached  his  own  threshold,  and 
his  latch-key  faltered  in  the  door.  As  he 
stepped  into  the  wide  hall,  a  curious  figure 


"THE  HONOR  OF  A  GENTLEMAN"      151 

in  the  disarray  of  his  fastidious  attire,  he 
caught  the  odor  of  roses — they  were  Mare- 
chal  Niels — floating  out  of  the  drawing- 
room.  The  rooms  were  warm  and  bright 
and  sweet,  but  their  cheer  seemed  to  him 
oppressive,  and  he  sickened  at  the  faint  per 
fume  of  the  roses. 

His  wife  came  and  put  the  portiere  aside, 
standing  with  one  white,  lifted  arm  outlined 
against  its  heavy  folds.  Virginia  always 
wore  simple  evening  dress  at  home  for  her 
husband.  She  had  been  heard  to  say  that 
it  was  one  of  theamenites  that  made  domes 
tic  life  endurable. 

"How  long  you  have  been  out!"  she 
said,  in  just  her  usual  sweet,  unhurried  voice, 
ignoring  his  dishevelled  aspect.  "  I  am  afraid 
you  are  quite  chilled  through." 

He  looked  at  her  an  instant  curiously — 
this  exquisite  piece  of  flesh  and  blood  that 
was  his  second  self  for  time  and  eternity — 
realizing  that  he  did  not  understand  her,  had 
never  understood  her,  could  never  hope  nor 
desire  to  do  so  again.  Then  he  gathered  him 
self  together  to  make  the  first  speech  in  the 
part  he  had  appointed  hereafter  to  play — 
that  role  of  devoted  husband,  whose  cues  he 
knew  by  heart.  As  he  spoke  he  was  shiver- 


152  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

ing  slightly,  but  surely  that  was  because  of 
the  raw  outer  air. 

"What  a  charming  pose!"  he  said. 
"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  throughout  Ho 
mer  '  white-armed '  is  used  as  a  synonyme 
for  beautiful?" 


RIVALS 


RIVALS 

"  I  DIDN'T  presume  to  suppose  that  you 
could  care  for  me  yet,"  said  Rollinson, 
humbly. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  cannot,"  said 
the  girl,  meditatively,  "but,  then,  neither 
am  I  at  all  sure  that  I  can. ' '  She  looked 
at  him  with  clear,  untroubled  eyes  as  she 
spoke,  eyes  in  which  he  read  her  interest, 
her  detachment,  and  her  exquisite  sincerity. 
She  had  not  grown  fluttered  or  self-conscious 
over  his  avowal.  She  was  a  modern  woman, 
and  she  was  young.  Nothing  had  yet  hap 
pened  in  her  life  to  disturb  her  conviction 
that  this  was  a  subject  upon  which  one  could 
reason  as  upon  other  subjects.  She  was  not 
emotional,  and  she  suspected  that  the  poets 
were  not  unerring  guides  in  matters  of  the 
heart.  She  liked  Rollinson  very  much,  and 
she  was  willing  to  listen  to  his  arguments. 

It  seemed  to  her  a  little  strange  that  he 
did  not  proceed  with  those  arguments  at 


156  A   BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

once,  when  suddenly  she  perceived  that  the 
adoration  in  his  eyes  was  intended  as  the 
chief  of  them,  and  this  discovery  was  so  dis 
concerting  that  she  blushed. 

"  I  am  twenty  years  older  than  you," 
murmured  Rollinson.  As  this  was  the  fact 
he  most  wished  to  forget,  he  felt  it  his  duty 
to  remind  her  of  it. 

"  Nineteen  only,"  she  answered,  calmly, 
"  and,  besides,  I  do  not  see  what  that  has  to 
do  with  it.  It  is  not  the  years  but  the  man 
one  marries. ' ' 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  think  so,"  he 
answered,  still  humbly,  "and  since  there  is 
no  one  else  you  care  for,  perhaps  in  time — " 

He  left  the  sentence  hanging  in  the  air,  as 
if  afraid  to  finish  it,  and  neither  this  modes 
ty  nor  the  yearning  tenderness  of  his  accent 
was  lost  upon  the  girl. 

' '  As  you  say,  there  is  no  one  else. ' ' 

"But — but  there  might  be,"  suggested 
Rollinson,  who  was  strongly  possessed  by  the 
insane  delusion  of  the  lover  that  all  men  must 
needs  worship  his  lady.  "  Bertha  !  If  you 
are  going  to  learn  to  love  me,  make  haste  to 
be  kind.  I  am  horribly  unreasonable.  I 
see  a  rival  in  every  man  you  speak  to,  dance 
with,  smile  at.  Until  my  probation  is  over 


RIVALS  157 

I  should  like  to  depopulate  the  world  you 
move  in.  I  want,  at  least,  to  be  rejected  on 
my  own  demerits,  not  because  of  the  merits 
of  another  man  !  ' ' 

Bertha  regarded  him  attentively,  still  with 
that  serious,  candid  air. 

"  Indeed,  I  will  try,"  she  murmured,  and 
for  the  moment  he  wisely  said  no  more. 

Rollinson  had  been  a  thoughtful  youth, 
who  early  conceived  of  old  age — which  he 
thought  began  between  forty  and  forty-five — 
as  one  of  the  most  desirable  periods  of  life. 

"  Patience  !  Afterwards,"  he  had  said  to 
himself  during  the  storm  and  stress,  the  con 
fusion  and  uncertainty  of  youth  —  "  after 
wards,  when  I  am  old,  when  all  this  fermen 
tation  has  ceased,  when  I  know  what  I  think, 
what  I  feel,  what  I  want  and  can  do,  how 
glorious  life  will  be  !  " 

And  in  accordance  with  this  conception, 
as  he  advanced  in  years,  he  looked  confident 
ly  for  the  subsidence  of  the  swelling  tide  of 
his  prejudices,  passions,  partialities,  and  for 
the  emergence  of  reason  undefiled  as  the 
second  Ararat  upon  which  the  long-tossed 
and  buffeted  ark  of  his  mind  might  rest. 

To  say  the  least,  he  was  taken  aback  when, 
in  the  midst  of  those  ripe  years,  whose  fruit- 


158  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

age  he  had  hoped  to  gather  in  great  peace, 
he  came  again  upon  tempestuous  days.  In 
brief,  when  past  forty,  it  befell  him  to  love 
as  he  had  never  loved  before,  and  with  an 
unrest  far  exceeding  that  of  youth,  for  he 
could  not  fail  to  see  that  the  chances  were 
by  rights  against  him. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  said  Rollinson,  when  he 
faced  his  emotional  condition,  "  for  the 
heart  there  is  no  afterwards  !  ' ' 

But,  happily,  Bertha  did  not  think  so  ill  of 
his  chances  for  happiness  as  did  he  himself, 
and  he  ventured  to  hope,  although  he  was 
terrified  by  her  calmness  and  her  ability  to 
see  from  all  sides  the  subject  he  could  only 
see  from  one. 

Bertha  respected  his  learning  and  revered 
his  wisdom — which  is  learning  hitched  to 
life — and  envied  his  experiences,  and  exulted 
in  his  grasp  of  people  and  things,  and  in  his 
breadth  of  vision.  She  thought  such  a  grip 
upon  life  as  he  possessed  could  only  come 
with  years.  And  compared  to  these  things 
the  disadvantages  which  also  come  with  years 
seemed  trifling.  Obesity,  baldness,  and  a 
touch  of  ancestral  gout  were  the  penalties  he 
had  to  pay  for  being  what  he  was.  On  the 
whole,  the  price  did  not  seem  too  high.  She 


RIVALS  159 

felt  quite  sure  that  she  would  ultimately  ac 
cept  him,  and  that  they  would  marry  and 
live  happily  ever  after. 

This  impression  was  still  strong  in  her 
mind  when,  some  days  after  the  conversation 
recorded,  she  went  with  her  aunt  to  a  little 
lunch-party  which  he  gave  in  his  bachelor 
apartments. 

Although  he  modestly  spoke  of  them  as 
being  very  simple,  Rollinson's  rooms  were 
really  a  liberal  education.  He  had  been 
about  the  world  a  great  deal  and  had  carried 
with  him  fastidious  taste  and  a  purse  only 
moderately  filled.  As  he  said  once,  he  had 
never  had  so  much  money  that  he  could 
afford  to  buy  trash.  The  result  was  very 
happy.  Pictures,  rugs,  draperies,  brasses, 
ceramics,  all  were  satisfactory. 

"  Your  things  are  so  delightfully  intelli 
gent!  "  said  Bertha,  with  a  gratified  sigh. 
He  found  himself  by  her  side  as  she  was  in 
specting  a  bit  of  antique  silver  on  a  cabinet 
with  obvious  approval.  "It  makes  me  feel 
as  I  have  never  felt  before,  what  a  wonderful 
thing  is  taste  !  ' ' 

He  smiled.  "  I  am  more  than  repaid  if 
they  have  pleased  you,"  he  said.  "Will  you 
step  this  way  an  instant?  I  want  to  show 


160  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

you  the  thing  I  am  vain  enough  to  value 
most  of  all." 

In  the  corner  which  he  indicated,  hung  a 
picture  she  had  not  noticed,  the  portrait  of  a 
young  man  about  twenty-five.  The  girl 
stared  at  it  with  fascinated  eyes.  "You! 
Can  it  be  you  ? ' '  she  questioned,  with  an 
accent  that  was  almost  a  reproach.  Ah,  how 
splendid  he  was,  the  painted  youth  in  his 
hunter's  costume  who  stood  there  fixed  for 
ever  in  all  the  beautiful  insolence  of  his 
young  manhood  !  What  a  mass  of  dark  hair 
tossed  back  from  his  fine  forehead,  and  what 
soldierly  erectness  in  his  bearing  !  How  the 
eyes  flashed  —  those  eyes  that  only  twinkled 
now  !  He  was  radiant,  courageous,  strong. 
What  a  hold  he  had  on  life  —  one  read  it  in 
the  lines  of  his  mouth",  in  his  eyes,  his  brow. 
What  zest,  what  eagerness  of  spirit !  He 
was  more  than  all  that  she  most  admired  in 
her  lover,  and  he  was  young — young  ! 

The  girl  gave  a  strange  look  at  Rollinson 
and  then  turned  back  to  the  picture  again. 
All  fulfilment  is  pitiful  compared  with  its 
prophecy,  and  in  that  moment  she  realized 
this. 

"  It  was  painted  by  my  friend  Van  Anden, 
who  died  too  early  to  achieve  the  fame  he 


RIVALS  161 

should  have  had,"  said  Rollinson.  "All 
that  toggery  I  am  wearing,  which  paints  so 
effectively,  was  part  of  my  outfit  when  I  went 
to  Africa  with  my  cousin." 

"It  is  very  fine,"  said  Bertha,  with  con 
straint,  and  then,  with  an  unmistakably  final 
movement,  she  turned  away  from  it.  Rol 
linson  felt  a  sudden,  wretched  pang.  If 
she  cared  at  all  for  him,  would  not  she  also 
exult  in  this  fair  presentment  of  his  young 
years  ? 

After  the  luncheon  had  been  served  and 
before  his  guests  had  moved  to  go,  he  saw 
with  a  hopeful  thrill  that  she  had  gone  back 
to  the  picture  and  was  standing  before  it 
again,  intent  and  questioning. 

He  went  up  to  her. 

"  Bertha  !  Dearest !  "  he  said,  beneath  his 
breath.  "  After  all,  you  like  it,  then  ?  " 

She  turned  upon  him  sharply.  "It  is 
wonderful — wonderful !  But  you  should  not 
have  shown  it  to  me  !  I  do  not  understand. 
I — I  thought  I  could  have  married  you.  Now 
I  know  that  I  never  can.  I — I  never  dreamed 
there  was  youth  like  that  in  the  world.  Oh, 
why  did  you  let  me  find  it  out? " 

Rollinson  stood  dumfounded. 

"  But  it  is  I,"  he  found  voice  to  plead  at 


162  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

last.  "  Bertha,  have  the  added  years  of  wor 
thy  life  made  me  less  deserving  of  your  love  ? 
Am  I  to  be  punished  for  becoming  what  he 
only  promised  to  be  ?  " 

The  girl  passed  her  hand  over  her  eyes  in 
a  bewildered  way. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  one  can  love  prom 
ise  better  than  achievement, "she  said,  faint 
ly.  "  To  care  for  what  is  not,  is,  I  fancy, 
the  very  essence  of  love." 

1 '  I  love  you  as  he  never  could  have  done, ' ' 
urged  Rollinson.  "As  he  never  dreamed 
of  caring  for  any  one.  His  loves  were  super 
ficial  and  selfish,  Bertha.  I  have  gained 
much,  and  I  have  lost  nothing  that — that  is 
essential." 

"  You  have  lost  comprehension — he  would 
have  understood  what  I  mean,"  answered 
the  girl,  quickly. 

"  But — Bertha  !  This  is  unreasonable. 
How  can  you  expect  me  to  compre 
hend?" 

"  I  have  been  too  reasonable  !  "  she  cried, 
with  sudden  passion.  "That  is  my  discov 
ery.  Love  is  not  reasonable,  youth  is  not — 
and  they  belong  together.  Oh,  don't,  don't 
make  me  say  any  more  !  ' ' 

For   an  instant  there  was  a  heavy  silence 


RIVALS  163 

between  them ;  then  Rollinson  found  voice 
to  say  : 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  please.  Your  aunt 
seems  to  be  looking  for  you.  Shall  we  go 
over  to  her?" 

When  his  guests  were  gone  at  last,  Rollin 
son  came  back  to  the  picture.  He  took  it 
down  and  placed  it  upon  a  chair  where  the 
light  fell  full  upon  it.  Truly,  he  did  not  look 
like  that  to-day. 

Although  it  was  himself,  he  hated  it,  for 
it  had  cost  him  something  dearer  than  the 
young  strength  which  it  portrayed.  Of  all 
the  irrational  humiliations  of  the  long,  way 
ward  years  of  life  this  seemed  to  him  the 
most  hideous. 

He  took  his  knife  from  his  pocket,  opened 
it  and  put  the  point  against  the  canvas.  It 
would  be  easy  to  satisfy  the  brute  anger  in 
his  soul  by  two  sharp  cross-cuts  which  should 
effectually  destroy  that  remote,  insolent 
beauty  which  had  once  been  his  own  and 
now  was  his  no  longer. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  dropped  the 
knife  and  shook  his  head.  He  could  not 
possibly  do  such  a  melodramatic,  tawdry 
thing  as  that. 

He  knew  that  the  day  might  yet  come 


1 64  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

when  he  should  not  remember  the  bitterness 
of  this  hour  ;  he  might  even  grow  to  be  glad 
again  that  he  had  once  walked  the  earth  in 
the  likeness  of  this  picture,  but  just  now — 
just  now  he.  must  forget  it  for  awhile. 

With  one  short  sigh,  Rollinson  lifted  the 
portrait  of  his  rival  and  set  it  down,  the  face 
against  the  wall. 


AT  THE   END  OF   THE  WORLD 


AT  THE   END  OF  THE   WORLD 

"  And  so,  as  kinsmen  met  a  night, 
We  talked  between  the  rooms, 
Until  the  moss  had  reached  our  lips, 
And  covered  up  our  names." 

SHE  was  sitting  quietly  in  the  sleeper, 
writing  a  letter  to  a  friend.  She  had  got 
as  far  as  "I  feel  it  my  duty  to  tell  you," 
when  the  pencil  flew  out  of  her  ringers.  She 
had  an  instantaneous  impression,  grotesque 
in  its  horror,  that  all  the  natural  laws  were 
being  unsettled  with  a  terrible,  grinding 
noise ;  for  the  pencil  was  falling  toward  the 
ceiling  instead  of  the  floor,  and  the  man  in 
front  of  her  was  following  it,  and  even  she 
herself.  Then  something  struck  her  head 
and  she  lost  consciousness. 

When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  lying 
on  a  cot  in  one  corner  of  a  large,  unfamiliar 
room.  As  her  gaze  wandered  slowly  from 
object  to  object  on  the  whitewashed  walls, 
she  concluded,  from  the  combination  of 


1 68  A   BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

railway  maps,  time  -  cards,  dusty  windows 
filled  with  geraniums  in  pots,  and  a  large, 
rusty  Bible  chained  to  a  wall-pocket,  that 
she  was  in  a  country  railroad  station  ;  but 
when  she  turned  her  head  she  saw  that  it 
also  resembled  a  hospital.  She  felt  bruised 
and  sore,  but  was  not  in  much  pain,  and 
only  an  indefinable  sensation  of  great  weak 
ness  warned  her  not  to  move. 

Presently  some  one  noticed  that  her  eyes 
were  open  and,  drawing  near,  asked  her 
some  questions.  She  answered  them  with 
ease,  and  then  in  her  turn  asked  a  few.  The 
man,  obviously  a  physician,  answered  briefly 
but  definitely.  Then  he  drew  a  notebook 
from  his  pocket,  took  down  some  addresses 
that  she  gave  him,  and  moved  away  softly  in 
the  direction  of  the  telegraph  window.  She 
lay,  looking  after  him  incredulously.  So  this 
was  death  !  She  had  at  farthest  two  more 
hours  on  earth.  It  was  part  of  her  creed  that 
one  may  permit  one's  self  to  be  surprised  but 
never  startled.  She  was  not  startled  now, 
but,  decidedly,  she  was  sorry.  Her  best  work 
was  yet  undone,  and  she  had  not  meant  to 
leave  earth  while  there  still  remained  so  much 
to  do. 

The  sounds  and  sights  of  the  hastily  im- 


AT  THE   END  OF  THE  WORLD          169 

provised  hospital  were  unpleasant  to  her,  and 
she  turned  her  head  away  from  them.  There 
was  one  cot  between  her  and  the  corner. 
She  recognized  the  profile  of  that  bandaged 
head  as  belonging  to  the  man  who  had  sat 
across  the  aisle  in  the  sleeper.  She  had 
jotted  down  a  description  of  him  in  her 
note-book,  thinking  she  might  use  it  some 
day.  It  ran  : 

"  Sallow  skin,  soft,  brown  hair,  fine  eyes, 
but  an  iron  mouth  with  a  devil-may-care 
expression.  He  has  the  get-up  of  a  man 
who  is  too  busy  being  prosperous  to  take 
time  to  be  comfortable.  His  face,  a  singular 
combination  of  sensitiveness  and  stolidity, 
the  latter  leading.  Neither  hard  enough  for 
this  world  nor  tender  enough  for  the  next. 
An  Achilles  with  a  dozen  vulnerable  spots, 
he  sheds  two  drops  of  his  own  blood  for 
every  one  he  draws  in  his  battles ;  so, 
whether  he  wins  or  not,  they  are  always  los 
ing  fields  for  him." 

She  lay,  looking  at  his  profile,  thinking 
that  never,  so  long  as  she  lived,  could  she 
see  the  other  side  of  that  anguished  counte 
nance,  and  the  thought  irritated  her.  This, 
she  reflected,  was  an  instance  of  the  strength 
of  the  ruling  passion.  She  had  always  been 


170  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

thirstily  curious  about  life,  even  to  its  least 
details.  Now  the  opportunities  for  quench 
ing  that  thirst  were  at  an  end.  There  was  no 
more  for  her  in  this  world  of  that  friction  of 
spirit  upon  spirit  which  she  loved.  She  was 
dying  in  a  corner.  Between  herself  and  the 
immensity  of  eternity  hung  only  that  one 
white  face. 

Suddenly  a  thought  came  into  her  mind. 
Why  should  she  not  talk  to  him — while  she 
was  waiting  ? 

"  Are  you  badly  hurt?  "  she  asked,  softly. 

He  groaned.      "  I  am  a  dead  man." 

"  They  tell  me  I  am  dying,  too,"  she  said. 
"  Why  have  they  put  us  here  in  this  corner, 
away  from  the  others  ?  ' ' 

"Because  neither  of  us  is  in  great  pain, 
and  we  are  both  hopeless  cases.  They  have 
no  time  to  waste  on  us." 

"It  is  very  strange  to  think  that  this  is 
really  the  last  of  it.  Are  you  prepared  to 
die?" 

"Prepared?  What  is  prepared?"  he 
answered.  "  One  is  never  ready  to  stop 
living.  And  there  were  a  great  many  things 
I  wanted  to  do  yet." 

"  Were  any  of  them  important  ?  " 

An  ironic  smile  twisted  the  corner  of  his 


AT   THE   END  OF  THE   WORLD  171 

lips.  "  Now  that  you  mention  it — no.  I 
wanted  to  make  a  good  deal  more  money. 
I  was  going  to  turn  over  two  or  three  pieces 
of  real  estate  next  week  that  I  expected  a 
profit  upon.  I  meant  to  build  a  finer  house 
for  my  wife — a  big,  new  one,  with  all  the 
modern  wrinkles  of  architecture  and  furnish 
ing.  Then,  if  I  had  known  she  was  going 
to  have  charge  of  things  so  soon,  I  should 
have  altered  one  or  two  investments  " 

His  pain  grew  sharper  and  he  groaned. 
When  he  was  still  she  spoke  again. 

"  If  I  had  met  you  yesterday  I  should 
have  said  that  your  interests  in  life  were  very 
much  less  fine  and  spiritual  than  my  own. 
I  wrote  things  that  people  praised.  They 
said  I  was  clever,  ingenious,  witty ;  but 
they  never  said  I  was  an  artist.  I  meant  to 
make  them  say  it.  I  was  going  to  write  a 
novel  next  winter  that  should  show" — 
She  stopped,  but  presently  went  on,  mus 
ingly  :  "It  is  very  odd,  but  somehow  it 
doesn't  seem  as  important  as  it  did  this 
morning.  Do  you  care  that  your  house  will 
never  be  built?  " 

"No." 

"And  I  don't  care  about  my  novel.  I 
called  my  interest  in  life  art,  and  you  called 


172  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

yours  business  ;  but  neither  of  them  seems  to 
count  any  more.  The  question  is,  What 
does  count  ?  " 

"Close  your  eyes  and  lie  still  for  five 
minutes,  and  note  what  you  find  yourself 
unable  to  avoid  thinking  of.  That  will 
show  you  what  counts." 

"  You  have  been  trying  it  ?  " 

He  made  a  motion  of  assent. 

"  Well,"  he  asked,  after  a  silence  on  her 
part  that  seemed  long,  "  does  it  work?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  tense  way;  "it 
works  too  well.  What  did  you  see  ?  ' ' 

Again  the  ironic  smile  twisted  the  visible 
corner  of  his  mouth.  "  Shall  we  exchange 
confidences — last  confessions,  and  all  that  ? 
I'd  just  as  soon.  Reticence  isn't  worth 
much  now.  Only — you  begin." 

"  I  saw,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  my  husband's 
eyes.  I  had  forgotten  how  they  looked 
when  he  found  that  I  really  meant  to  insist 
on  a  separation.  He  could  not  bear  it,  for 
he  adored  the  ground  I  walked  on.  It  was 
five  years  ago.  I  had  no  presentable  reason 
for  leaving  him.  He  was  so  horribly  good- 
natured  that  it  used  to  irritate  me.  And  I 
didn't  care  for  the  domestic  life.  It  inter 
fered  with  my  work,  although  he  had  prom- 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD     173 

ised  that  it  should  not.  I  wanted  to  be  free 
again.  He  let  me  have  the  child.  He  was 
very  good  about  the  whole  business — pain 
fully  good,  in  fact.  But  it  did  hurt  him 
cruelly.  I  have  been  very  much  happier 
since,  but  I  don't  suppose  he  has." 

"  Did  he  have  brown  eyes — the  big,  faith 
ful,  dog-like  kind?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  That  good  sort  often  do.  The  girl  I 
jilted  did.  We  had  been  engaged  almost 
from  our  cradles.  There  was  an  accident 
with  horses,  and  she  got  hurt.  She  limped 
a  little  afterward,  and  there  were  scars  on 
her  face  and  neck — not  very  bad  scars,  but 
still  they  were  there.  She  had  been  a  little 
beauty  before  that ;  but  she  never  at  any 
time  thought  much  about  her  looks,  and  it 
hadn't  occurred  to  her  that  I  minded.  But 
I  did  mind.  I  fretted  over  it  until  I  fan 
cied  that  I  didn't  love  her,  after  all;  but  I 
did.  One  day  I  told  her  so.  You  know 
how  she  looked  at  me.  She  asked  if  the 
accident  made  any  difference,  and  I  hadn't 
the  skill  to  lie  about  it  so  that  she  believed 
me.  She  rose  at  once,  as  if  to  put  an  end  to 
our  interview.  All  she  said  was,  '  I  thought 
vou  knew  better  what  love  was.'  I  can  hear 


174  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

how  her  voice  sounded.  She  was  badly  cut 
up  ;  lost  her  health  and  all  that.  And  I  never 
could  pretend  I  wasn't  to  blame.  The  girl 
I  married  later  was  faultlessly  pretty,  but 
there  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  her." 

"  We  seem  to  be  a  nice  sort,  don't  we  ?  " 
said  the  woman,  reflectively. 

' '  We  are  no  worse  than  others.  Unself 
ishness  is  out  of  fashion.  Everybody  takes 
what  he  wants  nowadays." 

"  My  husband  didn't." 

"  I  respect  your  husband.  But  you  did 
it.  We  did  the  same  sort  of  thing,  you  and 
I ;  only  I  think  you  are  the  worse  of  the 
two.  It  is  natural  for  a  man  to  want  a  wife 
who  isn't  disfigured." 

"It  is  natural  for  a  clever  woman  to  want 
to  live  unfettered." 

"  Perhaps.  But  I  erred  through  the 
worser  part  of  my  nature,  and  you  through 
the  better.  My  revolt  against  unselfishness 
was  physical,  and  yours  intellectual.  There 
fore  you  fell  farther  than  I,  by  as  much  as 
the  mind  is  better  than  the  body ;  don't  you 
see?" 

"That  is  speciously  put,  but  I  doubt  its 
truth." 

Both  were  silent  for  a  space. 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD          175 

"  I  have  it !  "  she  breathed  suddenly,  and 
her  voice  was  stronger ;  for  even  in  the 
clutches  of  death  a  new  insight  into  the 
meaning  of  things  had  power  to  stimulate 
her  whole  being.  "It  is  this  way.  Our 
error  was  the  same.  We  both  betrayed  their 
trust  in  us.  We  grieved  love.  And  the 
reason  that  we  remember  now  is  that  love 
and  God  are  one,  and  this  is  the  judgment. 
That  is  why  we  see  their  eyes  rebuking  us. 
It  comes  to  us,  now  that  we  die.  That  is  all 
life  is  for — to  learn  not  to  grieve  love.  Why 
did  I  never  know  it  before  ?  Oh,  if  I  had 
put  that  in  my  books  !  " 

"  If  you  had  put  it  in  your  life  it  would 
have  been  better,"  interrupted  the  man;  but 
she  went  on,  unheeding : 

"That  must  be  what  they  meant  when 
they  said  my  work  lacked  conviction.  It  is 
the  heart  that  takes  sides.  One  man  said  I 
was  too  clever  to  be  interesting.  I  never 
understood  what  he  meant  before,  but  I  see 
now.  It  was  that  I  had  mind  enough  but 
too  little  heart.  I  wanted  to  become  as  one 
of  the  gods  by  knowing,  and  the  appointed 
path  is  by  loving.  To  be  human  and  to 
love  is  to  be  divine." 

"  Oh,  wise  conclusion  !"  mocked  the  man. 


176  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"What  does  it  profit  you  to  know  it  — 
now?" 

She  was  silent,  spent  with  the  effort  of  her 
eager  speech.  The  maps  on  the  opposite 
wall  whirled  before  her  eyes.  She  felt  her 
self  slipping  —  slipping.  Yet,  though  she 
found  no  words  to  tell  him  why,  there  came 
to  her  a  sudden,  sweet  assurance  that  it 
profited  her  much,  even  at  this  last  hour,  to 
know  the  thing  she  had  just  spoken. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  found 
strength  to  ask  :  "  Shall  you  be  here  after  I 
am  gone?  " 

"Why?" 

"  I  gave  them  my  husband's  name.  I 
knew  he  would  be  glad  to  come.  He  lives 
a  hundred  miles  from  here,  and  it  will  only 
take  him  four  hours  at  the  longest.  I  shall 
not  last  that  long.  If  you  would  tell  him  "• 

"Tell  him  what?  " 

"  Tell  him,"  said  the  woman,  slowly, 
"  that  I  saw ;  that  I  am  sorry  I  grieved  love 
and  him ;  that  I  wish  I  had  been  wiser 
about  what  life  meant;  that  love  is  always 
best. ' ' 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  the  man,  reluctantly, 
"I  did  not  mean  to  stay.  I  dabbled  in 
medicine  a  little  once,  and  I  know  that  I 


AT  THE   END  OF  THE  WORLD          177 

can  last  this  way  a  day  or  two.  But  I  am 
in  pain  now,  and  it  will  grow  worse.  What 
is  the  use  of  staying  ?  They  tied  an  artery 
for  me ;  it  might  easily  get  untied,  you 
know." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  wait  until  your  wife 
comes?  "  she  asked,  wonderingly. 

"  Better  not,"  answered  the  man,  briefly. 
"  It  would  hurt  her  less  this  way,  and  me 
too.  Scenes  worry  me,  and  her  nerves  are 
delicate  " 

"  What  farces  such  marriages  as  yours 
are  !  ' ' 

"  Better  a  farce  than  a  tragedy.  My  wife 
has  been  happier  than  your  husband.  She 
has  been  very  comfortable,  and  she  will  con 
tinue  to  be  so,  for  my  estate  is  reasonably 
large. ' ' 

"  Then  Arthur  will  never  know  that  I  am 
sorry,  and  I  want  him  to.  Oh,  God  !  I 
want  him  to." 

The  man  lay,  frowning  sharply  at  the  ceil 
ing.  The  ineffectual  anguish  of  her  cry  had 
touched  him,  but  his  pain  was  growing 
worse.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"  Look  here.  If  I  will  stay  and  deliver 
that  message  for  you,  will  you  do  something 
for  me  ?  ' ' 


1 78  A  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 

"  I  ?     What  can  I  do  for  any  one  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  woman,  though  not,  it  seems, 
a  very  loving  one.  You  can  tell  me  if  there 
is  any  forgiveness  for  the  hurt  I  gave  that 
girl,  and  if  there  is,  absolve  me  in  love's 
name  !  I  cannot  bear  her  eyes." 

"  Love  forgives  everything,"  she  an 
swered,  simply.  "  Wait  until  you  see  Ar 
thur's  face  when  you  tell  him  I  was  sorry. 
That  will  show  you." 

"Say  it  !  "  murmured  the  man,  peremp 
torily.  "  Let  me  hear  the  words,  as  she 
might  say  them." 

She  turned  upon  her  side  to  smile  at  him. 
Her  voice  had  grown  so  faint  that  it  seemed 
but  a  disembodied,  yearning  tenderness  that 
spoke. 

"  In  love's  name,  then,  and  hers,  absolvo 
tc" —  And  the  thread  of  sound  dropped 
into  a  silence  that  was  to  remain  unbroken. 

The  man  lay  still,  clenching  his  hands  and 
unclenching  them.  The  thrusts  of  pain  had 
grown  very  sharp,  but  he  grimly  set  his 
teeth.  He  might  ask  for  morphine  ;  but  if 
he  took  it  "Arthur"  might  come  and  go 
while  he  lay  in  stupor,  and  the  message 
remain  forever  undelivered.  He  looked  at 
the  clock  on  the  opposite  wall.  Perhaps  he 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD     179 

had  still  three  hours  to  wait.  What  should 
he  do  ?  That  last  dart  was  keenest  of  them 
all.  What  did  people  do  in  torture,  people 
who  had  made  promises  that  they  must  stay 
to  keep  ?  Surely  there  was  something.  Ah, 
that  was  it.  Of  course.  They  prayed.  Then 
why  not  he,  as  well  ? 

His  lips  moved  feverishly. 

"  Christ,  thou  who  suffered  for  love's 
sake,  give  me — give  me  the  pluck  to  hold 
out  three  hours  more. ' ' 


19458 


A     000  774  343     8 


A   BOOK  OF 
MARTYRS 


te* 


GORNELIA  A.PRATT 


